


Over Earth and Under Earth

by khorazir



Series: Over/Under [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Archaeology, Case Fic, Comfort/Angst, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Issues, First Time, Horses, Inexperienced Sherlock, M/M, Nature, Post-Season/Series 02 AU, Sherlock's Past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-12
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2017-12-26 09:52:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 196,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/964564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khorazir/pseuds/khorazir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three months after finally acknowledging their mutual feelings, John and Sherlock are not much closer to sorting out their relationship, hindered by cases, work, family issues, everyday matters and by being themselves. Will a strange case out in the Suffolk countryside bring a solution or further complicate things?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a more or less direct sequel to [_Over Hill and Under Hill_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/477582/chapters/828977), the fourth part of my [Over/Under](http://archiveofourown.org/series/34840) series, but it can be read as a standalone. I might add more warnings as the story unfolds, so please watch the introductions to each chapter.
> 
>  
> 
> Since the Over/Under series was begun before the airing of Sherlock Series 3, it can now of course be termed an AU. Sherlock's familial background is different in this verse and this story, and since Sherlock returned after nine months instead of two years, John hasn't met Mary.

“Right, here you are, John,” said Lestrade, placing a pint of lager in front of John and slipping onto the bench opposite him. 

“Who’s winning?” he enquired, nodding towards the darts board not far from their corner in the pub. The Met’s forensics team was having a fierce competition with some of the Detective Inspector’s own folks captained by Sally Donovan.

John had been watching them absently, having so far resisted all coaxing to join either side. He shrugged. “I’m not sure. Sally has been doing pretty well, but so have Nikhita and Anderson. And that new bloke from Cardiff, can’t recall his name, he’s rather good, too.”

“Michaels?”

“Yeah.”

Lestrade nodded, watching the competition for a moment before turning back to John and taking a sip from his beverage. “Don’t yet know what to make of him as an officer. He’s eager, certainly, good references, too, but no sense of humour whatsoever. Actually surprised me by joining us tonight. Didn’t have him down as the sociable type. Sally’s wary of him. She fears he might endanger her promotion by playing himself into the foreground. He’s certainly been keen to catch the Chief Superintendent’s attention. Wonder what His Highness will make of him. I’m really interested in his verdict. When’s he due back?”

“Early next week,” replied John, taking a draught from his drink. “He said he’d be back for Guy Fawkes, so, yeah.” He shrugged and looked up from his pint when he felt Lestrade’s keen eyes on him.

“What?” he asked.

Lestrade smiled slyly. “You miss him already, don’t you? How long has he been gone?”

“Almost five days. ‘Urgent family business in Switzerland’, whatever that means. He didn’t want to go, but somehow his brother forced him into it. Don’t know what’s it all about. He has hardly texted, only that he arrived in one piece and that Mycroft is getting on his nerves. Nothing new there, I guess. But yeah, I miss him. The silence is almost worrying. Usually he texts or emails me all the time, often with trivialities.”

“Not just you,” sighed Lestrade, running a hand through his hair. “The weekend you were away at that conference in Glasgow, he texted me sixty-three times. Still, one does get used to it, and after a while you think something’s odd when your phone stops chiming without pause.” The DI gave John a shrewd look. “And now you’re bored, I take it? You never used to come to one of our outings in the past. What did you do for Halloween, anyway?”

“Late shift at the surgery. Most of the others have family and were glad when I offered to stay on late. It was interesting, too. We had three Halloween related emergencies: one kid overeating on those sour eyeball sweets that dissolve your teeth, another setting his hair on fire while inspecting the candle in a pumpkin, and a third tearing her leg somewhat badly while climbing over a fence in full Boba Fett armour. Those three cases alone provided all the excitement I needed for that night, although actually, after the past two or so months we’ve had, a bit of peace and quiet and normal, regular shifts at the clinic would have been a nice change.”

He raised his glass to toast Greg. “So’s an evening at an ordinary pub in the company of people who don’t keep eyeballs in the fridge, stuff themselves with a chemically hazardous version of them, or analyse blood splatter patterns or cigarette ash in their pastime.”

Lestrade smirked. “Well, actually, the forensics lot …”

John laughed. “You know what I mean. It’s true, I’m never bored with him. But hell, Greg, there’ve been cases virtually non-stop ever since we returned from France, and before that things weren’t exactly calm, either. Since August we had the mystery body at Tate Modern followed by two jewel thefts, the arsonist, and then that murder at Heathrow. And if that wasn’t enough, Sherlock even investigated the MP’s missing cats.”

Lestrade shook his head and grinned. “That was a good one, for sure. Whenever I need a good laugh – and a reminder that he’s human like the rest of us (more or less) –, I look at the photo of him emerging from the cellar with his coat full of kittens.”

John’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “You have a photo of that?”

“Sure.” Lestrade withdrew his mobile and after a bit of searching, held it out to John. Immediately the doctor’s face split into a warm smile. There was Sherlock ascending a staircase with his left hand gripping the iron railing, while with the other he was trying to pluck a climbing kitten from the front of his coat. Three more were peeping out of the large pockets of the beloved Belstaff. He was followed by John softly smiling to himself.

“I simply had to take the shot,” apologised Lestrade with a hint of embarrassment. “I’ll delete it if you want me to.”

John laughed. “God no, keep it. What’s more, send me the file. I really enjoyed that case, and I know for a fact Sherlock did, too, despite his complaints that it was all too easy and that he got cat fur all over his coat.” 

“It’s comforting not having to deal with a body from time to time – a human one, that is,” nodded Lestrade while mailing the photo to John. “But don’t tell me you don’t enjoy the ‘real’ murders, too.”

John shrugged. “Talking that way about a murder investigation still falls in the ‘bit not good’ category in my book, whatever Sherlock thinks. But yes, I like helping him, and sometimes simply watching him, especially when he’s in full case mode and you can almost see the cogs working in that magnificent brain of his.”

Lestrade nodded, watching John thoughtfully. “Yes, he was particularly brilliant lately. Glowing, one could say. Inspired.”

John groaned, rolling his eyes. “If you’re implying that I’m suddenly his muse or something, stuff it right here. The only inspiration he needs is his own brilliance.”

“And someone confirming it to him at regular intervals,” returned Greg slyly. “Don’t play down your part in this, John. I’ve known him longer than you, known him before he met you. He was an arsehole most of the time. No other way of putting it, really. Brilliant, yes, but also an arrogant, foul-mouthed fucker. He’d lash out at anybody, even when they tried to be friendly. So most people stopped after the first encounter and got defensive or insulting in turn. You should have heard him when I invited him to an outing like this. Must have been my forty-fifth birthday. I honestly thought he could do with a bit of company, but he made it very clear he didn’t. On the contrary, he thanked me by deducing my private life right in front of my fellow officers. I was this close to locking him up for a night. Often made me wonder what had happened to him in the past to make him that insufferable. Can’t imagine he had a lot of friends at school or uni. Kids don’t take kindly to people who are … different, special. And his arrogance certainly didn’t help things. He must have been terribly lonely but too proud and socially awkward to do anything about it. I both pitied him and wanted to give him a good rap round the ears. And look at him now.”

John gazed up from where he’d been tracing a whorl in the wooden surface of the table with a finger. Greg’s description of Sherlock pre-John fit with what the doctor had pieced together of his friend’s past from the few scraps of information Sherlock himself had offered, as well as hints from Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson. Yes, there had been the infamous newspaper article about the detective’s troubled past, but even though John knew it had been founded in fact, most of what Kitty Riley had made of it was a wild exaggeration of the truth, particularly of Sherlock’s past experiences with drugs.

“He’s still arrogant and socially awkward,” mused John. “If he could hear us he’d sneer and give us a good piece of his mind. He hates all this ‘sentimental blab’.”

“Yeah, right, and then he jumps off a bloody roof to protect us. That’s one hell of a sentimental statement, if you ask me.”

John swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. The memory of that horrible day at Bart’s was still very present in his mind. He’d thought he’d lost Sherlock forever as he watched him take the leap from the roof with his dark coat flapping around him like wings that refused to open in flight, and as he saw him lie on the pavement afterwards, face pale and splattered with blood, grey eyes open and staring at the sky. It had all been a trick, of course, pretence. A lie. But the grief and despair John had felt had been real, and their memory was still haunting John’s dreams and even some of his daylight thoughts.

“That’s true,” John agreed into the silence that had settled. “He _is_ sentimental, romantic, even, although he’d never admit it.”

“He’s happy now,” observed Greg, with a strange emphasis to his statement. “And so are you.”

Gazing down into his glass, John nodded, smiling to himself as he recalled the past weeks. “Yes, I am. Didn’t think I’d end up with a bloke like him – or a bloke at all, come to think of it – but it’s ... good. Complicated, utterly infuriating at times, but good. I wouldn’t want it any other way. Only the fucking press, they could really shut up about us now.”

Lestrade shifted uncomfortably. “Listen, I tried to find out who put that photo on Facebook, but whoever uploaded it there got it from somewhere else and they hid their traces well. Even the lads down at IT couldn’t find out more. Donovan swears it wasn’t her, so did Vathijanathar, and I believe them. And Molly wouldn’t have, for sure.”

John sighed. Had he initially thought the media onslaught after Sherlock’s return from the dead in late March had been bad, their newly acquired celebrity status in the gossip columns of the tabloids and on countless blogs and websites had given the term ‘invasion of privacy’ a whole new meaning. There had always been rumours about the precise nature of their relationship – not that, in John’s opinion, this was a concern of anybody’s but Sherlock and himself, thank you very much. But then there had been a photograph, taken at Bart’s morgue on the day of their arrival from a cycling trip to the French Alps in mid-August.

The photo, reminiscent in composition and framing of Robert Doisneau’s famous shot of two lovers kissing in front of the Paris city hall in the 1950s showed Sherlock and him, well, kissing. Sherlock had surprised him by grabbing his shoulder and pressing him against his body, even bending him slightly backwards, and snogging the living daylights out of him. It had been spontaneous, surprising, embarrassing because of the audience of Molly Hooper, Sally Donovan and forensic expert Nikhita Vathijanathar. Sherlock had simply wanted to express his delight about a remark of John’s which had led to an important clue in the investigation, not considering that their relationship had only one day previously advanced into kissing territory and that they had not discussed about how and when to go public.

Well, that decision had been taken out of their hands when the dratted photo had somehow made it onto the internet where some cunning editor had snatched it up. That had opened the floodgates. Paparazzi started to lurk outside their flat, stalking them in the city trying to snap an even more scandalous picture. It had been John’s ungrateful task to battle the media to at least reduce the damage. Sherlock had been occupied with cases non-stop and generally avoided talking to the press, meaning that most of the explaining came down to John. He hated it. It made him cranky and short-tempered. By now things had thankfully settled down a little, thanks to a constant flow of news about the royal baby. There was still the odd intrusive post on the internet, as well as blurry pap shots of them exciting 221B, riding a cab, or, which had added fuel to the fire, sharing a meal at Angelo’s over a candle between them on the table.

“Maybe their phone was hacked,” John shrugged. “Or yours. Don’t tell me whoever of the three shot the photo didn’t forward it to you and half the Met. I think I saw a printed out version on Hensley’s desk. And your IT system isn’t exactly top notch from what one hears. Whoever it was, I don’t care, Greg. What’s been done’s been done. Still, the fucking tabloids could shut up about us now.”

Lestrade grinned. “If it’s any consolation, it was a cute shot.”

John snorted, glaring at the other. “Don’t let Sherlock hear this. He doesn’t think he and cute should be mentioned in the same sentence, at least not without a negation. At age four he apparently took down a woman for calling him ‘cute little angel’ by deducing her and her husband mercilessly. Which doesn’t mean he can’t be cute or adorable when he remembers to switch off his ego for a moment and just be himself. I will absolutely treasure the kitten shot.”

He tried to keep his face straight but didn’t quite succeed when a warm smile began to spread. In recent months John had experienced a Sherlock that could be heartbreakingly insecure and shy, funny and silly, emotional and passionate, selfless and considerate. A Sherlock who’d get excited about finding an alpine salamander in the mountains and who’d cuddle up to John on the sofa. Who’d unleash hell at an A&E because John had been injured (no more than a scratch) to get him treated immediately. Who’d quietly beam to himself when a few days after delivering his load of lost kittens to two distraught children he received an email with their thanks and some wriggly drawings of John and himself which he printed out and fixed to the fridge. Who’d surprised John with dinner when the latter returned from a particularly hard day at the surgery (“What’s so difficult about it? It’s only applied chemistry, after all.” “What about the shopping?” “Oh, didn’t you know Tesco delivers?” “And the state of the kitchen?” “I cleaned it. Well, those appliances I needed, obviously. Didn’t want to overdo it. Still, you don’t have to fear you’ll be poisoned. Sit down or it’ll get cold.” “Are you going to join me, then?” “Oh John, as always you don’t observe. The table is set for two, isn’t it?” “The table looks like something exploded on it.” “Living room table.” “Oh.”) Who’d shyly ask John whether his kissing technique had improved yet again.

A faint blush must have shown on John’s features because, “Erm, I’m not sure I want to hear all the juicy details,” cautioned Lestrade. He looked more than mildly interested regardless.

John grinned. “I wouldn’t tell you even if there were any. Actually, things are far less scandalous than the press and those ‘fans’ on the internet want to believe. Jesus, have you read some of the stuff they write, or seen the photo manips or drawings they make? Real person fanfiction, they call it. Sherlock found it, don’t ask me how, and we spent an entertaining evening sifting through it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him blush so vehemently before both of us dissolved into giggles.”

Lestrade raised a questioning eyebrow, his expression one of faint alarm. “Tumblr?”

“How do you know that site?”

“My sister’s got teenage kids, remember.”

John raised a hand in caution. “You want my advice, stay clear of that place, Greg, if you value your sanity.”

“Thanks for the warning, mate.”

John shook his head, deciding to clear a few things up because Lestrade’s expression was one of horrified curiosity. “Well, some of the artworks are clearly more flattering than the pap shots. I never looked this ripped even when I was still playing rugby regularly. And they tend to stylise Sherlock as this pale supermodel and drape him over furniture (or me) in a number of seductive poses. According to him these would give him some nasty back pain in reality. Wonder what those artists and authors would say if they knew what’s really going on – namely, a great big nothing.”

Which wasn’t the complete truth, John had to concede. However, he still found it difficult to define Sherlock’s and his relationship. It defied everything he had always considered ‘normal’. Greg looked undecided between fascination at being divulged details of the couple’s private life and a firm believe that some things were supposed to remain private. In the end, however, curiosity won.

“So, what is going on?” he asked bluntly. “To be honest, that photo surprised me when it came. Of course I’d assumed there was something going on between the two of you almost from the start. The very fact that he seemed to tolerate and even like you, and you him, was novel. But I didn’t really expect you to ... you know.” He waved a hand vaguely, looking embarrassed.

John smiled. “Neither did I.”

“Don’t misunderstand me,” clarified Lestrade, “it was clear from early on that the two of you ... don’t know ... kinda belonged together. Sounds cheesy, but here you go. You’re good for him, and I think he’s good for you, too. You always came across as more than just good pals and flatmates. Not because everybody assumed, you know, that you were … um … shagging. Like you said, it just ... fit, despite you having girlfriends and Sherlock ... well.”

He shrugged. “For all his looks and swagger, he often seems a bit innocent to me. Not like someone who’s had a lot of hands on experience in those things, if you catch my meaning. Oh, he knows all the theory, certainly, but there’ve been cases when he said things that made me wonder if he’s ever been in a relationship, even a casual one.”

“I doubt it,” said John. He had often wondered about it, too. “It’s not that he’s very forthcoming about his past, but from what I gathered between the lines, this is the first time he’s committing to somebody else. Doesn’t make things any easier. There’s a possibility that he’s had some negative experience, back at uni. He doesn’t deal well with rejection and abandonment, so there might have been some occurrence. But as I said, he’s close about it and I don’t try to pry too much.

“And as for the ... well ... physical side of things,” John felt himself blush, his speech faltering. He wondered whether this was really the right time, place and recipient for this kind of talk. But Lestrade knew the two of them better than most people. John trusted him, and he knew that Sherlock, in his own convoluted way, did so, too. Moreover, after months of warring and coming to terms with his own feelings in regards to Sherlock Holmes, it was a relief to be able to speak about them to a trusted, non-judgemental ear. Mrs. Hudson had quizzed the two of them relentlessly about the new status of their relationship, causing both to blush and stutter when her well-meaning enquiries went a bit too personal. John’s sister had been over the moon, and amid a lot of “I knew it”s had swamped him with advice about how to stage his coming out. Apart from feeling overwhelmed by her interest and novel sisterly care, John had deemed it off the point. He didn’t consider himself gay. So yes, he was in a relationship with a man, but in this as in so many other things Sherlock was the exception. Moreover, ‘coming out’ had been taken entirely out of his hands by the press. The only thing he had been able to do was react and post a brief and straightforward entry on his blog stating that yes, Sherlock and he were an item now, and that no, not much had changed between them, and that people should kindly piss off and concern themselves with more important matters.

But Greg seemed genuinely happy for them and interested in a wary, somewhat embarrassed sort of way which made John feel at ease. He wasn’t too worried about telling the DI things about Sherlock the latter would rather keep private. As close at Sherlock was about certain aspects of his past and his emotional state in general, he appeared surprisingly unconcerned about the media attention. John suspected that to a certain degree he was even enjoying it, if only to prove to all those who’d always labelled him a freak that he, Sherlock Holmes, had found someone willing to put up with him.

John took a sip from his pint. “So far, Sherlock’s not been interested in … well … sex. All those cases have kept him more than occupied, and even case-less I doubt he’d made a move. Not really his area, I’ve come to understand.” He shrugged, then frowned at Lestrade’s steady gaze.

“What?”

“Doesn’t seem like that to me, mate, the way the checks you out when he thinks you don’t notice.”

John cleared his throat. “Right. Yes, there is that. He is slowly realising his body’s more than transport, but so far he hasn’t done anything about it. Which is fine with me. It’s quite some adjustment, all of this. Not just because he’s a man, rather because he’s … him. He’s my best friend, and I’d rather keep him like that than run the danger of messing things up because he’s suddenly discovered he’s got a libido but doesn’t know what to do about it. So we’re taking things slowly, very much so, in fact. That one kiss was about the raciest things got. Lucky us that it went viral the way it did. I don’t even know what to call him. Lover? Boyfriend? Friend? Partner?”

“Soulmate?” Greg provided, his gaze on John steady, his expression warm.

John shrugged. “Sounds a bit cheesy,” he said warily, although in truth the term sounded more appropriate than the others.

“Who cares? You look right together. He often accuses me of not observing, but either you’re pretty obvious about it or I’m not a total imbecile when it comes to detective work. Sherlock’s far more relaxed around you now. In the months after his ‘resurrection’ and before your trip to France I sometimes thought he’d burn a hole in the back of your head with his gaze. Now he stares openly, often followed by a smile and a blush when you or somebody else notice. There’s more touching, too, and generally a more frequent invasion of your personal space.”

John laughed nervously at the astute observation and its frank delivery, his cheeks burning. “Yes, there is all that,” he admitted meekly.

Sherlock was still wary of being touched when he wasn’t prepared for it or in the mood, but he initiated closeness more often than not, particularly when they were at home in the evenings and John was sitting on the couch watching telly or reading. Then Sherlock would sometimes flop down next to him and wriggle around until he could put his head in John’s lap, nudging him to pet his hair like a large cat. He purred, too, a deep, contented rumble that made John smile and his insides flutter. When John remarked about it Sherlock claimed it helped him think about the case at hand, but John was convinced he secretly liked being touched like this, starved of physical intimacy as he seemed to have been since childhood.

For himself, John didn’t mind the slow development. He was still surprised how quickly he had come to terms with the fact that he was now in a relationship with another man, something he had never anticipated when he imagined his future life. But here he was, in love with his best friend who happened to be male. And it was okay. Moreover, it wasn’t like they hadn’t been in a relationship before the fateful cycling trip to the French Alps. However, the journey had forced them to tackle some of the issues between them. Now it was recognised on both sides how much either needed the other – recognised, acknowledged, accepted and welcomed. The ‘L-word’ had not yet been spoken out loud, but it had been hinted at in everyday gestures and shy, clumsy talks.

They had not shared a bed since France, mostly due to the workload on both sides that made for irregular and often incompatible sleeping schedules. In a way, John thought when he considered their odd relationship, they behaved like an elderly couple that had spent half a lifetime together: deeply devoted to each other but with the fierce passion of youth having faded over the years. Sherlock had initially stated he didn’t want sex, at least not for the moment. John was fine with that, as it did not mean he didn’t rule it out forever. He was physically attracted to Sherlock, the same way Sherlock was to him, and his friend’s reluctance to advance their partnership into the bedroom seemed rather to be grounded in a general wariness of everything that might compromise Sherlock’s tight control over his emotions than any complete disinterest in or refusal of physical intimacy. Also, John surmised that given Sherlock’s inexperience in these matters combined with a negative encounter during his time abroad, he was simply scared shitless.

So there were taking things slowly. And when one of Sherlock’s ‘thinking sessions’ on the sofa developed into an epic snogging session before it was interrupted by Mrs. Hudson’s untimely appearance, well, so be it. Like that, it had caused awkwardness all round. As much as she adored the new closeness of her tenants, seeing her beloved “boys” making out on the couch didn’t appear to be high on their landlady’s agenda. Since the incident, she had taken to very diligently knocking and calling out before entering their flat.

 

**- <o>-**

 

“Sherlock doesn’t seem to mind his new-found fame as a romantic lead in his very own soap opera.” Lestrade’s voice pulled John out of his contemplations. He grinned.

John burst out laughing. “Oh, you mean ‘Baker Street’, the new primetime series? Yeah, we’ll be winning all the Baftas next year. _Corrie_ and _Eastenders_ won’t stand a chance.”

Sobering up, he added, “You know how he’s like. Most likely he deleted it to make room for all those cases he’s been on since. I don’t really mind what the fans are writing, either, despite my earlier rant. As I said, most of it is funny and indeed rather flattering. But that one article in the _Sun_ ... gosh, Greg, that was shite.”

“‘Lonely Detective Finally Finds Love’,” quoted Lestrade, carefully keeping his face straight.

John nodded. “Yeah, that one. I give a rat’s arse about how they dealt with me. You know, ‘turning gay for my flatmate’. In a way they’re even right.”

“They were right about the ‘lonely detective’, too,” said Lestrade thoughtfully. “As I said, in the five years I knew him before you showed up, he always seemed to be on his own. What’s more, he didn’t seem to want any company. There was the occasional flatmate, but only for a few days, and only during the first year. To be honest, I didn’t think you’d last long, either. But you stayed.”

“Yes, I stayed,” John repeated softly, running his finger along the rim of his glass. Looking up at Greg, he added, “I still don’t know why exactly he took to me the way he did – or I to him.”

Lestrade smiled warmly. “What, sociopathic geniuses with an interest in murder not your type?” he teased.

John smiled as well. “Well, one seems to have a certain appeal.”

There was a loud cheer from the direction of the darts board and both looked up to see what was going on there.

“Anderson’s really good at this,” John observed after watching the commotion for a while.

Lestrade sighed dramatically. “So it seems. Pity he’s playing for the dark side. But I’d be damned if Sally wasn’t going to try and beat him still. Look at her. That man’s in for trouble.”

“I heard they split up,” remarked John, grateful about the change of topic. As cleansing as it had felt to have a sympathetic ear for unloading his Sherlock-related emotional baggage, he did not want to go any deeper. Greg, his immediate curiosity sated, seemed to share the sentiment.

He smiled at the foray into Met gossip territory. “Yeah. Sally ditched him. His wife wants kids. Seems okay for both sides, though, although Sally’s tough to work with at the moment as she’s in a ‘all men are arseholes’ phase. And Michaels’ appearance didn’t exactly help matters. I’m sure she’d love if Sherlock were to deduce something nasty about the fellow.”

“You don’t like him, either?”

Lestrade avoided his gaze. “I’m his superior. I must be above like and dislike.”

“But?” needled John.

Lestrade sighed. “I didn’t say this, but he’s quite a pain in the arse. Does everything by the book. And the Chief Superintendent likes him which unfortunately Michaels noticed and now the floors are slippery all round. No wonder Sally’s wary of him. She’s the best sergeant I’ve ever worked with and I want her to get the recognition she deserves, and not some upstart from Wales only because he’s male and white and licks the Super’s arse. But I didn’t say any of that.”

“Any of what?” asked John innocently, raising his glass.

Lestrade smiled. “Cheers.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the piece for Chapter 1, entitled "Kittens":  
> 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks a lot to all those who commented and left kudos on chapter 1. It means a lot. Chapter 2 is rather short, but chapter 3 is written and just lacks editing and an illustration, and thus should be up in the foreseeable future.

John didn’t bother switching on the lights in the flat when he returned. Enough illumination filtered in through the glass panels above the front door to illuminate the staircase. Midnight had only just passed and he hadn’t drunk so much as to even get tipsy. Nevertheless he felt knackered. Yesterday’s late shift was to blame, he reckoned. The seventeen steps seemed steeper than usual as he dragged himself up.

The evening had been enjoyable, though. In the end Greg and he had joined the darts players. The match had ended in a narrow victory by the forensics lot, but the others had taken it in good humour and made plans for revenge. During the match, John had watched the new officer closely but found him an amicable if somewhat stiff fellow.

Baker Street seemed devoid of life when John climbed the stairs. Mrs. Hudson had obviously retired early as there was no sound from her flat. But worse than the absence of a faint murmur of her television or the clatter of pots in the kitchen was a definite lack of Sherlockian sounds in the flat above. No violin tunes, no restless pacing, no muttered streams of consciousness that would eventually be transferred into deductions, no tinkle of glassware or roar of a Bunsen burner from the kitchen lab. Sherlock was out, and he seemed to have taken all sounds that made 221B ‘home’ with him.

John halted on the first floor landing, briefly considering making a cup of tea but deciding against it. Most likely he would fall asleep while he waited for it to cool to drinking temperature. No, a quick wash and brush of teeth, a sip of water, and then sleep, that was the plan. He had to be up fairly early for work the next day – or this day, actually, it being past midnight after all – and he wanted to at least give the impression of a well rested doctor even if he wasn’t going to be one.

Moreover, the kitchen and living room would be feeling uncomfortably empty. John knew he was being overly sentimental, but this lack of consulting detective was stirring up memories of a time when the absence had been felt even more keenly, a dark, painful hole in the centre of John’s world. He sometimes questioned his undeniable dependence on this one person, never having been in a situation before when he had focused so strongly on another human being. People would talk. It wasn’t normal.

Fuck normal. It felt right. And it was mutual. Sherlock depended on him with the same intensity. It had taken John a while to realise this. Greg had alluded to a past when Sherlock had vehemently sought and maintained his independence, and for a long time John wondered why Sherlock had taken to him the way he had. John didn’t consider himself anything special, and he dreaded the day when Sherlock was going to realise this and declare him not interesting and worthy of his attention any longer. Moreover, Sherlock continued to work independently. He would still hare off on his own now and again, to come home to a strong chastising by John because of past hurt. John had forgiven Sherlock’s ‘demise’, although there were moments when Sherlock either was particularly annoying or doing dangerous things without involving John that stirred up old resentments.

Right now, John was tempted to check his phone for a text from his friend although he knew there wasn’t going to be one. He felt ... deserted, which was unreasonable. Sherlock had not wanted to go, and it was not that he had vanished into thin air of a sudden. He had informed John about the journey beforehand. John even knew his flight times and numbers. He did not know about the reason for the trip. Family matters could mean anything, and Sherlock had been very close about his whereabout apart from it being somewhere in Switzerland, his flight destination being Zürich.

Sighing, John ran a hand through his hair. Hopefully Sherlock was going to be forthcoming with information once he returned. John also hoped he had recovered some during his sojourn abroad. Even though he had thrived under the huge caseload, the lack of sleep and proper nourishment (despite John’s interference when Sherlock’s neglect of his ‘transport’ became too dire) had ultimately left traces. Sherlock hadn’t looked well when he had set out. John fervently wished that he had managed to partake of some healthy meals and regular resting times, although somehow he doubted it, knowing how Sherlock worked.

 

**- <o>-**

 

A brief visit to the bathroom later, John climbed the remaining stairs to his room. He frowned when he noticed a faint draught wafting down the stairs. Apparently a window had been opened. _Great_ , thought John, _the room will be an icebox now._ Mrs. Hudson was getting forgetful. But Mrs Hudson wasn’t to blame for leaving the window open. The true culprit was revealed to John when he pushed open the half-closed door. The room was dark but for the faint orange light from the street lamps below, which sufficed to illuminate the figure curled up on the side of the bed closer to the window.

John felt a jolt of ... he wasn’t sure what emotion exactly, only that it was strong and welcome. Joy? Relief? Love? The corners of his mouth quirked up in a warm, gentle smile. Typically Sherlock, he had not deemed it necessary to inform John of his altered travel arrangements. Most likely, given his faible for dramatics, he had kept silent to surprise John – a gesture that both touched and annoyed the doctor. Funnily, though, Sherlock’s grand plan seemed to have backfired. As usual, he had underestimated the demands of his body, in this case for rest. So now instead of a well orchestrated welcome, there he was, passed out in John’s bed.

Quietly John stepped into the room to take a closer look at his friend who lay prone on his left side in a loose foetal position on top of the duvet. His long legs were slightly angled. He had shed his shoes and jacket but was still wearing his black suit trousers and one of his posh shirts, the grey one. It sported a faint curtain pattern. Sherlock’s face was partly shadowed by the swaying fabric in front of the window and showed in stark contrast to his dark trousers and hair. The freckly tan he had acquired during the summer, particularly during their outing in the French Alps, had almost faded but for a darker area on his nose. Worryingly, the shadows round his eyes and under his cheekbones were more pronounced, telling John that apparently he had not rested during his sojourn in Switzerland. On the contrary, Sherlock appeared to have experienced little respite at all, and had not eaten a lot, either, judging from the leanness of the long fingers resting loosely next to his face.

He looked very young like this, innocent, vulnerable. _Human,_ John thought before shaking himself. Not a surprise, that, was it? He of all people knew of Sherlock’s human, shy, selfless, awkward, loving side, the one so well hidden from the world it had taken Sherlock himself more than two years and a jump from Bart’s roof to rediscover and accept its existence. He was still at odds with his feelings, but there were times when he would open up to John and let him in, and John treasured these glimpses of the ‘real’ Sherlock more than anything. Right now, even though Sherlock would never admit it during his waking hours, here was another proof of the ‘sentiment’ Sherlock so loathed. Was there a more romantic gesture than returning early from a journey to surprise one’s partner, and to wait for them in the one place they were sure to return to eventually so as not to miss them?

Smiling gently, John went to close the window and draw the blind. Sherlock did not stir, but a slight shiver ran through his body. John reckoned he must be cold, thinly clad as he was.

“You daftie,” muttered John fondly as he watched the sleeping form. Apparently Sherlock had been up here for some time. There was the stack of newspapers John had collected for him on the floor next to the bed. Sherlock’s laptop sat on top of them, and his mobile was lying on the bedside table next to an empty mug that seemed to have contained tea. There was no trace of Sherlock’s luggage or his other clothes. John surmised he had shed them downstairs. He hadn’t noticed their presence since he had gone straight into the bathroom.

Sherlock’s sleeves were rolled up. He often did that when he was playing the violin. John leaned in for a closer look. Yes, there were faint traces of rosin on his fingers and in his hair, meaning he’d run his hand through the strands. So Sherlock had arrived early, divested himself of some of his garments, had made himself tea, and he had played waiting for John. Why had he not texted, then? Had he wanted to be alone? He had taken the newspapers, but they were stacked exactly the way John had left them. Unread, then. Normally after a prolonged absence, Sherlock spent hours catching up on the news, trying to find interesting cases he had missed or simply soaking up gossip like a sponge.

With a sigh, Sherlock shifted in his sleep and frowned, his left hand clenching into the pillow. Again he shivered. A faint worry began to gnaw at John. Whatever had happened in Switzerland, it had taken its toll on Sherlock. This did not look like the normal post-case crash when his body finally shut down to demand the rest it had been denied for so long. The strained look on his features even in repose spoke of emotional trouble. John wondered if he was having an unpleasant dream. Combined with the fact Sherlock seemed to have terminated his sojourn abroad prior to what had originally been planned boded ill. Family matters … few things were worse than those.

John recalled little about Sherlock’s familial background beside odd remarks by Sherlock or his brother about their mother. He knew she was still alive and a scientist in Switzerland. Sherlock mentioned her very rarely and if he did, not fondly. What John had been able to gather about Sherlock’s past spoke of a lonely childhood: top education and plenty of intellectual challenges, but little emotional closeness.

And now here he was, seeking refuge in John’s bed, his face buried in John’s pillow, obviously comforted by the familiar scent. John felt his heart clench as he watched him, a wave of fondness surging through him. This was Sherlock Holmes, brilliant, singular, the only consulting detective in the world because he invented the job, a proper genius, hugging his best friend’s and potential lover’s pillow like a stuffed toy. John felt the acute urge to run his fingers through Sherlock’s wild curls and draw him close.

He didn’t want to wake him, though. His friend needed all the sleep he could get tonight, because the next morning he would likely be up again, brain and mouth running at high speed. This strange, touching nocturnal interlude would, if not deleted but at least be shoved into a dark room of his mind palace and locked away. There wasn’t going to be a discussion, maybe not even an acknowledgement of the occurrence, unless John persisted and confronted Sherlock about it. With the wisdom of past experience he doubted that would be a good move if he was interested in maintaining peace between them.

John sighed, walking over to his wardrobe to fetch a spare pillow for himself and a blanket for the both of them. Carefully, he covered Sherlock with it, letting his hand rest briefly on his friend’s tense shoulder. Sherlock seemed to appreciate the covering. He sighed again and snuggled into the woollen throw.

Quietly, John moved about the room and changed into his pyjamas. Since the duvet was folded beneath Sherlock’s body, there was no way of moving it without waking him. Therefore, John also lay down on top of the duvet and pulled some of Sherlock’s blanket over him to cover them both. As if sensing his proximity, or else his body simply reacting to a source of warmth at hand, Sherlock turned onto his other side to face him.

Lying on his back, John watched him in the gloom. In moments like these, he felt a deep gratitude to whatever had caused the two of them to meet, and for the fact that this impossibly brilliant and deeply human creature had chosen him, John Hamish Watson, former army doctor with a dodgy leg and a stiff shoulder to share his life and genius with.

John drew a deep breath. “Good to have you back,” he whispered, knowing he wasn’t just referring to Sherlock’s trip to Switzerland.

There was the faintest twitch of the corners of Sherlock’s mouth. “Go to sleep, John,” came a deep rumble, the voice sleep-roughened and slow.

John’s face split into a warm smile. “Always the last word, eh?”

“Always.”

Chuckling softly to himself, John shifted until he lay comfortably before closing his eyes. “Good night, Sherlock.”

“Night, John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Artwork again: "[Early arrival](http://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/61870229437/early-arrival-illustration-for-chapter-2-of)"


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again thanks to all who left feedback. :)

The alarm of John’s mobile went off at 7:30 am. He silenced it with a groan. It was far too early to get up, particularly after an evening out. Recalling the previous night, he remembered the unexpected but very welcome addition to his bed. Half prepared to find himself alone and Sherlock’s appearance to have been a dream, he felt a warm glow lodge in his chest when he turned his head to discover the consulting detective still next to him, lying on his side and watching him quietly. In the dim light of dawn his features looked soft, his hair a halo of grey in its sleep-rumbled state.

“Morning,” murmured John, only half awake yet touched and pleased that Sherlock had not fled the bed at some point during the night.

“Good morning,” Sherlock rumbled, still watching John with an expression the other found difficult to read. “You are surprised I’m here,” Sherlock stated.

John rubbed his eyes before propping himself on one elbow. “Yes. I didn’t expect to find you at the flat yesterday, nor, well, here, in my bed. It was good, though. A very pleasant surprise. Why didn’t you text or call me? I would’ve returned from the pub sooner.”

Sherlock shrugged, grunting noncommittally. John knew him well enough not to press for an answer.

“How was your trip?” he asked instead.

A shadow of distress passed over Sherlock’s features, almost immediately hidden under a mask of cold indifference. Not good. John changed tack and decided to try some humour to break the ice. “Did you bring any Toblerones?”

“No,” replied Sherlock, not rising to the bait and countering with a witty repartee, thus worrying John. “I forgot.” As if berating himself for the oversight, Sherlock’s lips narrowed and he frowned, before his expression darkened even more. “The journey was a complete waste of time,” he burst out forcefully. “I shouldn’t have gone.”

John surmised that this was a mild evaluation of the voyage. Something else, something darker seemed to be lingering behind Sherlock’s frustration, hinted at in the hardness of his eyes, the thinness of his lips and the tense, uncomfortable way he held his body. It reminded John of those instances when Sherlock had recounted glimpses of his time abroad hunting down Moriarty’s henchmen. He hoped that things had not been as dire and desperate in Switzerland these past days. At least Sherlock didn’t appear to be injured, at least outwardly. Still, his behaviour didn’t bode well. If anything, his emotional wellbeing had been compromised. John knew he’d rather stitch up a cut or cool a bruise than deal with that kind of injury.

Not sure whether a soothing touch would be appreciated, John kept his hands to himself but angled his body a little closer to his friend’s. “Want to talk about what happened?”

Sherlock shook his head, shifting so he lay staring at the ceiling. “I want to delete it,” he spat, the ‘t’ sharp and final in its vehemence. “I’ve tried but without success so far. One of those things I can’t seem to get rid of. But if you must know, suffice to say that my family is a bunch of fucking egomaniacs. The less one has to do with them, the better.”

His hands clenched into the duvet he was lying on. “I shouldn’t have gone,” he repeated, softer now. “I knew beforehand that nothing good would come of it. Fucking selfish arseholes, the lot. I certainly didn’t need another reminder of how messed up they are.”

John frowned at the expletives. Sherlock seldom cursed, and when he did his swear words were unusually eloquent, often somewhat old-fashioned, even cute. Only rarely he stooped to spouting forth commonly worded abuse. The fact he had done so now, vehemently and venomously, increased John’s concern. Whatever had happened in Switzerland, it hadn’t been pleasant. John surmised that something deeply personal and not necessarily recent lay behind the troubling experience. His problem was that he knew so little about Sherlock’s familial background so as to have no frame of reference on which to judge his friend’s obvious distress. He could only hope that at some point Sherlock would decide to open up and let him in, to share whatever clouded his heart. Now, apparently, was not that time, as confirmed by Sherlock’s quiet plea.

“Don’t ask, John,” he begged quietly, turning his head to once more look at John. “It’s a long story, and not one I want to divulge here and now. No need to spoil your morning, too, after it’s begun so pleasantly.”

John sighed. “I won’t ask. You _will_ tell me if there’s anything I can do, though, won’t you?”

“There isn’t,” returned Sherlock, before the flicker of a smile lit up his features. He relaxed his tense shoulders and shifted a little closer to John. “No, that’s not entirely true. You could go and bash their swollen heads together. Maybe that’d punch some sense into them.”

John smiled vengefully. “Just point me in their direction.” His expression sobered. “Seriously, Sherlock, I know from personal experience that the people you’re related to by blood can be the greatest fuckers in the universe, so if you’re upset about something they said or did, I totally understand. Just ... don’t try and keep it all to yourself, okay. Talk to me, when you feel you have to vent. Rage about them, if you think it helps. Call them all kinds of names. Make little dolls and incinerate them in your lab – well, no, don’t do that, actually. I don’t want the kitchen on fire again.” He fixed Sherlock with a steady gaze and let out a sigh. “Just don’t —”

“Go out and do anything stupid?”

John released another breath. “Yeah. That, and don’t shut me out entirely. I don’t need to know what particular brand of arseholes they are, but I won’t deny I’m curious. After all, they produced Mycroft and you. Can’t be total morons.”

Again Sherlock seemed to struggle to force down a smile. “Not so sure in Mycroft’s case,” he quipped, “although it’s fair to say he was the most tolerable creature at the entire assembly. He and the cat. At times it even seemed like the two of us against the rest of them. Nothing new there,” he added softly, his voice tinged with what John read as sadness, causing him once more to wonder what the Holmes brothers’ childhood had been like.

Sherlock, too, was silent for a moment, seemingly lost in thought. “You’re right,” he then conceded, “we didn’t turn out too badly, considering our parents. Not even Mycroft, for all his ... well, the way he is. 

John thought that this was the nicest thing he had heard Sherlock say about his brother in a long time.

Sherlock cocked his head, giving John a shrewd, calculating gaze. “Don’t believe I don’t know what you’re doing here, John. Trying to comfort me despite really knowing why I’m upset. Asking all these innocent, subtle questions.”

John raised an eyebrow. “What am I trying to do, then?”

“Wheedle information out of me. You’ve already had me reveal more data than I intended. Very shrewd, John. Quite masterful, this method of interrogation.”

“Well, I learned from the best. Be glad I don’t employ more powerful tools.”

“Such as?” Sherlock enquired, one eyebrow cocked in challenge. John knew it for the tactic of deflection that it was. Sherlock really didn’t want to talk about his family, but he enjoyed John’s care and gentle teasing. Hoping to relieve some of his friend’s unhappy, frustrated mood, John decided to push him a little further.

“Well, there’s ... this.” The last word was accompanied by a swift pinch at Sherlock’s side that elicited a gasp, some squirming, and a grin.

“Oh, you mean the nefarious tickling torture?” Sherlock asked when he had his features under control again, the grin replaced by an expression of playful indignation. “You are a bad man, John Watson. I didn’t think you’d stoop so low.”

John grinned. “Yep, that’s me. But you knew that before you voluntarily ended up in my bed. You know, I begin to assume you secretly like the tickling.”

Sherlock sniffed haughtily. “Hardly. It causes me to do undignified things —”

“Like squealing, you mean?”

“I don’t squeal. I’ve never squealed in my life. It was a gasp.”

“Hah. Liar. Back in France you didn’t gasp. You squealed. You sounded like a bloody piglet.”

“I didn’t. Get your ears checked, doctor. And as for the tickling, know that I’ve only encouraged that kind of silliness so far in order to build up resistance against it. It won’t work much longer.”

“Is that so?” asked John, shifting closer while pulling down the blanket for more freedom of movement. He lifted his hand, grinning as Sherlock watched it hawkishly, his body tensing. With deliberate slowness, John lowered his hand to run his fingers along Sherlock’s side. He felt the other tense even more. Sherlock’s breathing became deeper. He exhaled through his nose, huffily. A glance at the detective’s face showed him biting his lip, his eyes dark and his brows knotted in a frown while he concentrated on holding still. When John lifted his hand again, Sherlock let out a long breath, struggling for composure. John felt a stab of pride at being able to unsettle the usually so controlled detective with the lightest of touches.

Sherlock, meanwhile, tried to uphold the pretence of being unaffected. “See?” he boasted, his voice strained with the effort of keeping it steady.

“I’m impressed, Sherlock,” muttered John. “Such self-control.” He raised his hand again. Sherlock tensed in preparation of another touch to his side, but John surprised him by very lightly sliding his hand down Sherlock’s throat, his fingertips rasping over faint stubble. Sherlock kept his mouth shut, not even a gasp issuing from it, but John felt him swallow hard. He had to do the same, his throat suddenly dry as his eyes fixed on the mole next to Sherlock’s adam’s apple. John felt a sudden urge to kiss that spot. He resisted, barely, lifting his gaze to Sherlock’s instead. Not that it helped much to dampen his arousal.

Sherlock’s eyes had darkened so that the light grey irises were almost invisible now. There were red blotches on his cheeks. His breathing had elevated, his chest expanding so that the part of John still capable of rational thought grew slightly anxious about the durability of the poor buttons and button-holes of Sherlock’s tailored shirt. Sherlock began worrying his lower lip with his teeth as John leaned in and breathed against his neck, his eyelids fluttering close. John’s hand slid lower again to return to stroking the other’s side, the silk-like cotton of Sherlock’s shirt smooth and warm under his fingertips, feeling the play of lean muscle and the hard bone of ribs underneath, and raising goose-bumps all over Sherlock’s arms where he had rolled up the sleeves the previous evening.

Like during their rather chaste encounters in the past, John was once more surprised by Sherlock’s responsiveness. The man soaked up physical affection like a sponge when he was in the mood, and repelled it like a citrus fruit keeps away cats when he wasn’t. The combination didn’t make things any easier for John, despite his progress at gauging his friend’s mood over time. There were bound to be instances when John got it wrong. He was not looking forward to those, hoping fervently this was not going to be one of them. 

For now Sherlock was playing along, though. Moreover, he seemed to be enjoying the intimacy, causing John joy in turn. There was nothing obviously sexual about this light teasing and touching, although the possibility of it becoming more lingered. John hadn’t lied to Lestrade. He could not recall having ever had another relationship like this. As a teenager there had been a similar kind of restrained and slightly awkward exploration with his partners, but later the intimate encounters had been much more straightforward. And yet for the time being, John was happy about the way things were going with Sherlock and didn’t ask for more.

Even though John wasn’t very ticklish, he, too, drew in a startled breath when he felt Sherlock’s large hands come up to his sides and draw him closer until he was half lying on top of him. First one hand and then the other wandered up to the nape of John’s neck and tangled in his hair, to then pull his head down with gentle force until his lips were brushing against Sherlock’s. John needed little encouragement to deepen the kiss, still fascinated by the faint rasp of stubble, its novelty not having faded yet even after the past weeks of occasionally kissing another man. Soon, however, any thought vanished as he got lost in the increasingly familiar taste and feel of Sherlock’s lips and teeth and tongue, the scent of his skin and hair, and the sensation of a body of somewhat different anatomy than his previous partners pressed against his.

Despite the growing familiarity of this kind of exchange, John couldn’t help wondering about Sherlock’s motive. There was a strange urgency and intensity to his actions that hadn’t been there before. He had been impulsive on two occasions so far, once when they’d woken up on the final morning during their trip to France and Sherlock had been startled and overwhelmed by this body’s reaction after some fierce kissing. Back then he had instantly terminated the activity. It had been followed – a damper to their mutual arousal – by an awkward yet honest conversation about sexual stimuli and how to deal with them.

The other instance had been the now famous kiss at the morgue where Sherlock had simply let his emotions show. At any other time they’d kissed, he’d been careful in his actions, restrained and controlled, even during the snogging on the sofa. ‘Thorough’ might be a fitting term to label his approach to kissing, perhaps; ‘scientific’ another. He had seemed both eager to ‘get it right’ in his awkward but adorable inexperience, while at the same time anxious and reluctant to go too far. John strongly suspected he was keeping a log somewhere, or at least that he had reserved a special room in the ‘John-Wing’ of his mind palace for kissing and all the information he could gain about John (and himself) by undertaking said activity.

It felt different now, though. There was nothing careful or reluctant about it. Structured scientific study had been replaced by raw need. If John had to find a word for what they were doing, ‘kissing’ was not the one he would have chosen. This was snogging bordering on foreplay, and not of the gentle kind, either. This was passionate, forceful, even desperate in the way Sherlock held John and attacked his mouth. Sherlock had virtually pinned him down on top of himself, was holding his head firmly in place with both hands while he kissed him deeply, almost bruisingly, both possessive and strangely clingy.

As much as John enjoyed this new intensity, it also confused and even alarmed him. It felt like Sherlock was pouring all his pent up frustration and disappointment and whatever else the botched family reunion was making him feel into this tryst. John had no idea where this was supposed to end, and whether Sherlock had even thought it through. Actually, he doubted Sherlock was thinking at all at the moment. Most likely his mental hard drive was having another fatal system error and had shut down to let Sherlock’s baser functions take over the transport. John’s body, too, had very concrete ideas where things should end, and as much as he enjoyed the passionate exchange and wanted to surrender to what particularly the lower part of him was suggesting, the alarm bell tingling in his head would not be silenced.

One of Sherlock’s hands left his head to slide down his back and pull John even closer. It briefly played with the hem of his t-shirt to then dip under the waistband of John’s pyjama bottoms to cup his arse. That was new. Nice, yes. Bloody good, in fact. John barely suppressed a moan. But when at the same time Sherlock shifted underneath him, his legs parting to accommodate his body, John tensed. As arousing as it felt, it also seemed … not wrong exactly, but badly timed. He didn’t know about Sherlock’s state – or, well, he did know, he realised, because he could feel his friend’s arousal against his thigh, making him wonder briefly how uncomfortable it must feel for Sherlock in his slim-cut trousers – but if they kept going like this, very soon stopping would be extremely unpleasant and unsatisfactory.

John had promised Sherlock to follow his lead in terms of advancing the physical side of their relationship, and in general he was okay with taking it to the next level. He had fantasised about it, increasingly so during Sherlock’s absence these past days, but so far it had always been abstract and theoretical. John was no longer harbouring any weird sexual confusion, nevertheless now that having to put his fantasies into practice seemed imminent he felt overwhelmed and very badly prepared, teenage flutters and insecurities all over. So much for ‘Three Continents Watson’, he thought wryly.

Also, if he was honest he’d imagined their first time to be different. More deliberate and tender, perhaps. Romantic, too. Not necessarily with candles and stuff, but definitely not a rushed affair with unclear motives on Sherlock’s side, and the clock ticking on John’s. _The clock, right. Work._ With a shock he remembered that he should have left the bed and gotten ready for work immediately after the alarm went off.

Therefore, when he felt Sherlock’s grip on his head loosen, his hand sliding down his throat while the other squeezed his buttocks, John drew back a little, catching his breath. Sherlock, equally out of breath, slowly opened his eyes to gaze up at him with a questioning expression, his eyes dark but quickly regaining their sharpness. His kiss-reddened lips narrowed as apparently he sensed John’s reluctance to continue. He swallowed very slightly before assuming a guarded expression, one eyebrow quirked in question.

“Having second thoughts?” he asked, his voice rough and deeper than usual. He made the question sound even, straightforward, but together with his expression John could feel insecurity emanating from him like a scent, despite Sherlock trying to look cool and unperturbed. Not good. He had to carefully choose his words and actions now.

To reassure the other, John shook his head, rubbing Sherlock’s shoulder gently with one hand and then touched his forehead to brush away an unruly curl. “No, never. But I have to be at work in half an hour, and you know what traffic is like this time of day.”

Sherlock frowned at him, his lips a thin line before his expression changed. John could pinpoint the very moment the mask went down to turn the other’s beloved face into a cold, almost bored looking façade.

“I see,” came the curt reply, accompanied by a jerk of Sherlock’s chin and followed by him squirming to move out under John’s body. John scooted aside and Sherlock turned onto his side, his back to John. For a moment he lay still with only his shoulders moving as he let out a long breath. Then he extended his right arm to angle for his mobile on the bedside table and switched it on.

Sighing deeply and flopping down on his back, John ran both hands over his face and through his hair. Great. Exactly the opposite he had meant to achieve. Sherlock was troubled enough as it was, and now bloody miscommunication had made things worse. Drawing a deep breath, John propped himself on his elbow again and turned to Sherlock.

“Sherlock, listen —”

“It’s fine, John. I understand.” Sherlock’s voice was low and even, not betraying any emotion.

“It’s not fine. You’re hurt and I’m sorry about that. I’m not having second thoughts. Even without your deductive powers you must have noticed how much I enjoyed what we just did. It’s just ... the timing wasn’t very good, was it? I can’t call in sick today or even afford to be late because there won’t be anybody else at the surgery this morning. And it’s flu season. They really need me there. Sherlock, are you listening? 

There was no reaction from the tense shoulders and mess of dark curls John was facing from his vantage point. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Brilliant.

“I’m not hurt,” now came a soft but firm reply. Despite the conviction it carried, to John it sounded like an attempt of Sherlock’s to convince himself rather than John. Then again this estimation could be far off the mark. One never knew with Sherlock Holmes. “Go to work, John,” Sherlock added over the jingle of his phone’s email alert.

John cringed at how cold and devoid of emotion his voice sounded as he watched Sherlock’s lost profile outlined in the light blue glow from his mobile. Tempted to touch his shoulder, to make him turn round and face him, John nevertheless resisted. He really had to get up. Moreover, despite not wanting to leave things at that, he didn’t know what to reply. Sherlock’s words had borne an uncomfortable finality. Discussion was not welcome, so much was clear. Another thing they didn’t talk about, then. One more feature on a long list.

The soft toll of a church bell made John lift his head. 8 o’clock. Bloody hell, he really had to be going. Like this he might just have time for a quick shower and then would have to dash, hoping that the tube was running on time because taking a cab was no alternative in London’s rush hour gridlock. He might as well skip the shower and run for it. Breakfast or even tea were out of the question, too.

After a moment’s deliberation, he squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder and pressed a kiss to the nape of his neck, his heart clenching when he felt the other tense and roll his head at the obviously unwelcome touch. John let out a breath. The list be damned, they had to talk about this one tonight.

“See you later,” John muttered, and after a long glance at his friend’s back, he scrambled out of bed. Without switching on the light he gathered his clothes together in the cold glow of Sherlock’s mobile and quietly slipped out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The illustration for this chapter is called "[Having second thoughts?](http://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/62451047469/having-second-thoughts-illustration-for)"


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies to those affected by last chapter's tension. Hope this one eases a little of that. Again thank you for your feedback, in whatever form.

John reached the surgery with over twenty minutes delay, sweaty and so out of breath that even cursing was difficult. Due to a signal failure the Metropolitan Line had been suspended halfway to his destination and he’d had to jog the remaining two miles. By that time the waiting room was already full to the last seat, with Dorothy the receptionist about to phone him to enquire about his whereabouts. He rightly blamed traffic, was forgiven and handed a towel and a very welcome cup of tea, and got to work.

A steady stream of patients more than occupied his time throughout the day, so much so that he barely managed a bite for lunch after he’d already skipped breakfast. Yet despite that, John’s mind frequently strayed to Sherlock. Several times, he had to force himself to concentrate on the people in front of him and their ailments. Over the course of the morning, the joy about Sherlock’s unanticipated early arrival was replaced by a deep sense of unease and worry, sharpened by the morning’s disaster for which John partly blamed himself.

But only partly, he decided when during a quick visit to the loo he once more reflected on the matter. Why couldn’t Sherlock just tell him what had happened in Switzerland when it was so obvious that it bothered him? Why complicate things by keeping silent? John was no mentalist, he couldn’t gaze into the other’s mind. Sherlock was difficult to read at the best of times, and if he wanted to withhold information, the walls he put round himself were virtually impenetrable.

For a moment John considered contacting Mycroft about the situation, but he knew that when Sherlock found out about John conferring with the archenemy behind his back – which inevitably he would, being who he was –, John would never live it down and it would make their situation ten times worse. No help from Mycroft, then, but what else to do? Gazing into the mirror as he washed his hands, his reflection looked as helpless and frustrated as he felt. He withdrew his phone from his trouser pocket and checked for messages, but there were none. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. It had been too much to hope for, anyway.

Still, whenever there was another brief respite from the onslaught of snotty noses (“No, I won’t prescribe antibiotics because they won’t work against a common cold.”), stomach troubles and vertigo (“No, it’s not salmonellas. How much alcohol exactly did you drink the other night?”), or the usual minor injuries and check-ups, he reached for his mobile. Part of him hoped Sherlock had texted, if only for some ridiculous reason such as needing him to hand over a pen, make a cup of tea, or informing him about the progress of his latest experiment – or, dare he even hope it, about a new case. John longed for something that went for ordinary for the inhabitants of 221B, something that would at least give an impression of normalcy.

However, John’s realistic half wasn’t surprised about the lack of messages. Sherlock was likely wallowing in an epic sulk – no, John decided, the estimate wasn’t quite fair. There was something else this time. Sherlock had seemed genuinely hurt and troubled. He wasn’t going to entertain John with trivialities today. In retrospect John wished he’d at least taken the time this morning to make Sherlock tea and toast as a token of affection, but in his rush he had not even entered the kitchen but had dashed straight down the stairs after finishing in the bathroom. What a great friend he was, he mused. He’d virtually abandoned Sherlock in his vulnerable state, rejected his advances, or so it must have seemed to Sherlock. Sherlock, who’d overcome his usual reluctance and awkwardness this morning and actually tried to further their relationship; Sherlock, who didn’t cope well with any kinds of rejection – or worse, abandonment. Surely he would interpret it just so and was now keeping silent in a bout of hurt and stubbornness, the combination not a healthy one.

_What are you up to? J_

John therefore texted, then placed the phone on his desk. He stared at it as it lay there, silent, the display dark. No reply. Another patient later he tried again.

_I’m really sorry about this morning, Sherlock. Talked to Jagati and she’s going to take a few of my patients so I will be back fairly early, five-ish, I hope. Any plans for dinner? I could pick up some takeaway on the way home. Anything you fancy?_

Again, silence. John sighed and swallowed. There was always the possibility that Sherlock didn’t have the phone at hand or was simply too busy or too lazy to get it, but something told John that this time that wasn’t the reason.

There was a knock on the door and Dorothy ushered in old Mrs. McFarlane for her weekly check-up, which in truth was more of a weekly chat. Usually John was happy to oblige. Mrs. McFarlane was in her mid-eighties and relatively fit for her age, but also lonely with her husband recently deceased and her children and grandchildren up in Aberdeen working in the oil industry. John knew her entire lifestory and actually enjoyed listening to her tales, knowing that he could help her most by keeping her company for half an hour, lending a sympathetic ear, than by prescribing anything.

Today, however, he hardly caught a word of what she was recounting happily. At one point she stopped, looking at him critically over the rim of her glasses.

“You don’t look too well, Doctor Watson,” she observed in her faint Cockney. “You haven’t caught a cold, have you? The weather’s been nasty these past days.”

John shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mrs. McFarlane. I’ve had a bit of a rough morning.”

She nodded sympathetically. “It’s them drivers, they don’t pay attention to pedestrians, do they? I think I might need to get one of them rollators next year. Did you know how my mum got her driver’s licence?” And off she went on an account of how when they had lived over at Spitalfields her mother had learned to drive during the war while her father had been away serving in the RAF. John tried to pay more attention this time and actually managed not to think about Sherlock while the story lasted.

When John’s boss Jagati knocked on the door to inform him that there were three more patients waiting for him, he kindly interrupted Mrs. McFarlane. As he helped her into her coat and escorted her out of the door, she patted his shoulder soothingly.

“Get him some chocolates,” she told him with a twinkle in her eyes. “They usually help.”

John frowned at her, a couple of questions forming on his lips before he remembered how well informed she usually was about the content of the tabloids. Likely she had read about Sherlock and him there. Mrs. McFarlane winked at him. “It’s usually things of the heart that get people so distracted. And your boyfriend seems a right piece of work from what the papers say. With my husband, it always worked with the chocolates to cheer him up. He had a sweet tooth, my Robert had, bless him. He was keen on them Belgian ones. Well, and if things were really dire and we had a bit of a quarrel, I ate them myself to fortify me. Things are better with chocolate. “

John smiled. “Thank you, Mrs. McFarlane. I think I’ll give it a try.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

After he’d finished his shift, John took a small detour on his way home to stop at the Russell Square Waitrose. They needed some essentials like milk, cereal, toast and vegetables. Something for dinner would be good, too, he decided, although he wasn’t sure if Sherlock was in any mood to eat. John for one was ravenous. He texted Sherlock again about dinner, but unsurprisingly didn’t receive any reply. His anxiety increased. Even if Sherlock had been busy earlier, distracted by an experiment or even a case, it was unusual for him to completely ignore his phone for so long. It seemed far more likely he was ignoring John’s messages on purpose. Very mature, all that. It was looking to be a very pleasant and relaxed evening. Still, better a monumental sulk than something darker and more serious. ‘Danger night’ echoed through John’s mind. Danger day, even? There hadn’t been anything of the sort ever since Sherlock’s return. He had not even used nicotine patches. John didn’t trust the peace, however, particularly not after the disastrous morning. There was whatever emotional baggage Sherlock had brought home from Switzerland, too. Speeding along the aisles, he filled his basket as quickly as he could.

Not fancying to cook or having to wait for takeaway, he grabbed two steak and ale pies, some bread (why was everything you bought nowadays either ‘artisan’ or ‘award winning’?) and a bag of pre-cut salad before heading to the confectionary section. After some walking up and down staring at chocolaty sweets from all over the world (some both artisan _and_ award winning, and fair trade, too) he chose a box of chocolate covered sea creatures made from Belgian nougat. He didn’t know whether Sherlock liked them despite him having shown a proclivity for nougat in the past, or if he did whether he was in a mood to appreciate the gift. Generally Sherlock was not averse to sweets, and when he was very focused on a case and as usual neglecting to eat properly John had taken to leaving high calorie snacks in his immediate reach. Mysteriously, they tended to vanish over the course of the day. John hoped the nougat was going to meet with the same fate.

 

**- <o>\- **

 

Laden with shopping as he was John took a cab back to the flat. Already upon reaching Baker Street he sensed that something was amiss. All windows of the living room were flung open, the curtains billowing outwards from the draught. When he stepped out of the taxi and paid the driver he could hear raised voices from upstairs, one unmistakably that of a very put out Mrs. Hudson. He couldn’t make out her exact words, but for her to get that loud and angry meant that Sherlock must have done something to so thoroughly annoy her that tutting and good-natured eye-rolling didn’t cut it anymore. Something monumentally stupid, by all accounts.

Grabbing his bags and hastening to unlock the door and climb the stairs with a deep feeling of unease, John was greeted by a heady reek of burned plastic mixed with a couple of other unpleasant, chemical smells he couldn’t quite define, apart from the sting of vinegar. There was a hint of cigarette smoke as well, and burned wood. 

“No, I won’t calm down. I’ve told you plenty of times to not experiment with dangerous things in the kitchen,” John heard Mrs. Hudson thunder when he reached the landing. The door to the kitchen was open, as well as all the windows in the flat judging from the cold draught. From the corridor, John could see neither her nor Sherlock. Apparently they were in the living room. “All this stench will be difficult to get out of the curtains and the other fabrics. Your whole bedroom is going to reek of it – not that you use it much, but still. And those soot stains or scorch marks are everywhere, even on the ceiling. And you know how bad smoking is for you. And don’t you dare roll your eyes at me, and you will look at me when I chide you. You really have no idea how much we worry about you all the time, John and I, do you?”

With a deep sense of foreboding, John stepped into the kitchen and stopped at the table – or what was left of it. It looked like a bomb had hit it, resplendent with broken glassware and other debris, scratches and scorch marks. Something black and burned lay between the shattered test tubes and the overturned tripod and Bunsen burner. Worse, an icky substance seemed to have melted and partly eaten into the wooden surface, creating a moonscape-like pattern of small holes and craters.

Beyond the glass doors John spotted Sherlock in front of the fireplace, silhouetted against the window. Something seemed to be smouldering in the grate, and it looked (and smelled) like the chimney draught wasn’t working properly. Blue smoke wafted up from under the mantlepiece. Mrs. Hudson was standing with John’s armchair between her and Sherlock, her hands on her hips. Sherlock was still wearing the clothes he had slept in, the grey shirt crumbled with the sleeves rolled up. It was stained in places. John couldn’t be sure at the distance, but some of the stains might even be holes. Sherlock’s hair was a mess, standing on end as if he had run sticky fingers through it repeatedly. His hands were indeed stained darkly as if with soot, and there were other marks on his face where he had brushed a hand over his forehead to tuck away his fringe.

So far Sherlock’s had not replied to any of Mrs. Hudson’s reprimands, but now there issued a noise from him which might have been a reaction or a cough. He spun round to fully face Mrs. Hudson and his eyes fell on John.

For a moment he seemed undecided whether to just turn round again and ignore him, or to draw himself up haughtily and issue a sharp retort, or to deflate in defeat. As it was, he just froze, his face assuming a carefully crafted image of blankness which nevertheless didn’t fool either John or Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock noticed. He drew a breath, squaring his shoulders, his head jerking up and his chin sticking out in a display of superiority which John felt to be entirely out of place while at the same time typically Sherlock.

“It won’t happen again, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said evenly, his voice deliberately calm and deep, his eyes resting on John.

“Good – although I remember hearing that before, to little avail, it seems,” she admonished him. “I will take your word for it – again –, but the damage to the kitchen goes on your rent. Yours, not John’s. You won’t pay it back in money. You will help me round my flat to work off the amount I see fit. There’s plenty to do there for a pair of gangly arms and large hands. Now tidy up the kitchen. And get rid of these bloody cigarettes. They’re not burning properly. You must adjust the draught in the chimney, silly clot, so that all the smoke doesn’t end up in the room. A genius like you should know that.” She cocked her head, her hands tightening on her hips as she shifted into a more aggressive stance. John couldn’t see her expression, but he was sure Sherlock was on the receiving end of a deadly glare.

“Bloody smokes,” she groused. “They’re not good for you. You know that. And you know that John doesn’t like it when you risk your health like that. I thought you’d stopped for good.”

Still gazing at John steadily over her head, Sherlock inclined his head slightly. “Unfortunately I have.”

Noticing someone’s presence, Mrs. Hudson turned. Her cheeks were still flushed in anger, but now her face shifted into a relieved smile. “Oh John, dear, good to have you back. I don’t know what came over this one today. I was happy when I realised he was back early, thought it’d cheer you up since you’d been so lonely these past days, but then he storms out almost knocking me over on the stairs, and comes back shortly after and starts whatever he did to blow up the kitchen table, and then the fire alarm goes off, and Mrs. Turner phones me that there’s all this smoke coming from the flat, and when I come up here he’s smoking again as if all this stench wasn’t enough, and —”

Stepping up to her, John squeezed her shoulder soothingly. “It’s okay, Mrs. Hudson. I’ll take care of this. The kitchen has looked worse and the smell will fade. I’m sure we can even save the table – although I do agree that Sherlock should work for you to replace its value. We need to wash the curtains anyway one of these days. We can do yours at the same time. Luckily you’ve already enlisted a tall and long-armed volunteer to climb the ladder and put them down and up again, and moreover help you clean your windows.”

Turning to where he had deposited the shopping bags, he stooped and retrieved the box of chocolates. “Here,” he said, handing them to her. “Make yourself a cuppa and have a few. I’ll sort this out,” he added, giving Sherlock a meaningful glance over her head and noting how the other swallowed very slightly before turning to the fireplace and rummaging in it with the poker, thereby releasing another cloud of cigarette smoke. John wondered if there was a dead bird in the chimney for it not drawing properly. They hadn’t lit a fire since ... well, before Sherlock’s ‘death’.

“Oh, you’re such a dear, John,” cooed Mrs. Hudson, pecking his cheek. “Thank you for the chocolates. They’re among my favourites. Well, I’ll leave you two to it, then, shall I? And you _will_ clean up your mess, Sherlock,” she threw over her shoulder in a stern and unforgiving voice, “or I’ll abduct the skull for good. Awful thing.”

Giving John another quick smile combined with a worried glance, she set off with her chocolates, leaving John staring somewhat awkwardly at Sherlock’s profile illuminated by the flames in the fireplace.

“What was all this about, then?” asked John when the other didn’t acknowledge his presence.

Sherlock gazed into the fire for a moment longer before shrugging and returning the poker to the far side of the fireplace, thereby turning his back to John. For a moment he just stood there unmovingly, before he stooped to retrieve his violin from where it rested in his Le Corbusier chair.

John pinched the bridge of his nose. He drew a deep breath. “Listen, if this is still about this morning, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left you like that. I —”

Sherlock straightened up and half turned to John. “It’s not about this morning. I miscalculated the amount of potassium I added to the water and it blew up and incinerated the table.”

John drew a deep breath as the words sunk in. “You experiment with potassium in our kitchen? Fucking hell, Sherlock, every school kid who’s been half awake during chemistry lessons knows that that’s a bad idea.” 

“The environment was perfectly controlled for the experiment I wanted to conduct.”

“No, it fucking wasn’t, obviously. What happened? You’re not usually that negligible when it comes to chemistry. Did you get distracted by something?”

Sherlock’s chin jerked up and his eyes narrowed in indignation, even hurt. “No,” he returned with a touch of sharpness. “It turned out _someone_ had disturbed the order in which I’d arranged the bottles containing the alkalis, and so instead of the sodium I needed for making lye I happened to grab the one containing potassium. Because it was in sodium’s place, obviously. I had actually indexed them, if you must know.”

“I don’t touch your stuff unless I can’t find a path through the kitchen or space to put something down anymore. I certainly didn’t disturb your index of hazardous chemicals.”

“You made pasta and tomato sauce the day after I’d left for Switzerland.”

“How —? Never mind. What’s that to do with sodium and potassium? I certainly didn’t put either in the sauce. Wait, are you implying they were standing in the spices cupboard?” John let out a breath, closing his eyes for a moment to collect himself. “I’m not even going to berate you about that. You didn’t bother to read the labels, I take it?”

Sherlock sniffed haughtily. “Had the containers been in the right order, I wouldn’t have had to.”

“So you _were_ distracted?”

Sherlock made a sound between a snort and a growl, exchanged the bow for the poker again and dealt his incinerated cigarettes a violent stab. John could tell he was angry at himself but too proud to admit it. John frowned, glancing round the kitchen with light dread in the knowledge that the remains of the table were likely still drenched in a corrosive solution of caustic potash despite their dosing with vinegar. Given this knowledge, it was reassuring to know that apparently Sherlock had remained unscathed if somewhat rumpled.

Nevertheless, John was not prepared to let the matter rest entirely. He made a face when another billow of tobacco smoke issued from the fireplace, stirred up by Sherlock’s fiddling with the poker. Drawing himself up, he fixed his gaze on Sherlock again. “What about the smoking, then? What did you mean by ‘unfortunately you’d quit’? I remember you telling me that you can’t stand the taste and even the smell of tobacco anymore after what happened at Monte Carlo. When we were investigating that arson case you even snatched Mrs. Winter’s cigarette right from her mouth and dumped it in her coffee because, and I quote ‘the stench is making me sick’.”

Returning the poker with a clang and snatching up his violin bow, Sherlock let out an exasperated breath and turned to fully face John. “I meant that I could have done with the soothing and at the same time stimulating effect the inhalation of nicotine used to provide,” he snapped. “So I gave it another try. Thanks for reminding me of Monte Carlo, by the way.”

John stepped into the living room to take a look at the smouldering remains of the packet in the grate. “What happened to ‘I hated it’, then?” he enquired tenaciously.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, scratching the back of his head with the tip of the bow. “I still do, which precisely was the problem. I took two draughts and nearly threw up because of the associations the taste brought. It did make me sick. So I burned them. I also didn’t want you to find them, but you came back too early.”

“Why didn’t you want me to find them? Don’t you think I would have noticed if you’d smelled or tasted of cigarette smoke – despite whatever blasted half the kitchen?”

“You make it sound like I deliberately set the kitchen table on fire to veil the reek of my cigarettes,” Sherlock stated accusingly with a theatrical display of injured pride. John didn’t fall for the act.

“I wouldn’t put it beyond you.”

He had spoken lightly, but even as he uttered the words, he knew that he’d overstepped an invisible mark. _Bit not good_ , flared up in his mind. It was supported by the flash of hurt passing over Sherlock’s face, almost immediately vanquished and hidden behind a mask of cold arrogance.

“You have a high opinion of me, John,” he stated calmly, his voice aloof and even. John hated when it sounded like that, cold and clinical with no trace of the deeply human side of Sherlock he so loved. 

John swallowed and sighed. “Listen, Sherlock —”

“No, you’re quite right. I do use manipulation and lies whenever it suits me, and I’m good at employing them.” Sherlock cocked his head slightly, his eyes keen and his face not betraying any emotion. “You know, I sometimes wonder how you can stand being around someone like me, you with your strong moral principles, your _caring_.” Taking a step towards John, Sherlock loomed over him, backlit from the fire, using his greater height to dramatic effect. “Why do you put up with me, John?” he asked with an unnerving, eery, quiet intensity. “Why are you still here, knowing what kind of person I am?”

Now it was John’s turn to growl in frustration. They were not going to venture into that discussion. He drew himself up and returned Sherlock’s intent gaze defiantly. “Because it’s my home, you twat, because I live here, and I like it here. The park is close by and public transport connections are fine and our landlady gives us a good rate and bakes us cake and scones every other day. Makes up for an idiot flatmate, don’t you think? Oh, and because I happen to like said idiot flatmate, too, most of the time. At least when he doesn’t blow up the kitchen or take up bad old habits like fucking smoking. Enough reasons?”

Sherlock swallowed. His tightly controlled expression wavered, the corners of his eyes crinkling and those of his mouth quirking in the faintest of smiles.

“Why do you like that flatmate of yours when he’s an idiot and blows up the kitchen and reverts to bad old habits?”

John waggled a finger at him. “Oh no, you’re fishing for compliments and I’m not going to bestow any on you right now.” Sobering up, he drew a deep breath. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, Sherlock. You don’t want to tell me and that’s okay. But the thing I told you this morning —”

“About me not doing anything stupid?”

“Yeah, precisely. Well, that _was_ stupid, what you did. Both fiddling with dangerous substances – hell, I didn’t even know we were storing elementary potassium in the spices cupboard. What else is in there? Plutonium? Do I even want to know?”

“Well, actually —”

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock snorted and rolled his eyes. “Don’t be silly, John, of course I don’t keep radioactive elements in the flat. There might be some mercury left from the forgery case, but I can assure you the container is sealed tightly and securely and properly labelled.”

“You’ll return it to whatever lab you got it from tomorrow,” said John sternly. “I mean it. And you’ll get a proper storage unit for all your chemicals. Storing alkalis next to the spices ...” He ran a hand over his eyes. “I try not to imagine what could have happened had I mistaken the potassium for those feta cubes in olive oil we have a glass of in the cupboard and added it to a salad.”

“It would have resulted in an interesting taste experience,” muttered Sherlock, his eyes twinkling. “Molecular Cuisine, isn’t that the latest fad in cooking?”

“Hey, you’re not allowed to joke about it,” John reminded him with exaggerated sternness. “The only one who may is I, for what I have to endure with you. I should be allowed to ridicule you for the rest of the evening for your inaptitude of conducting an experiment that every school kid knows about.”

“Feel free,” returned Sherlock carelessly.

John sighed, resting his hands on the back of the armchair between them and hanging his head for a moment. The adrenaline of the quarrel subsiding, he felt knackered. Raising his head, he found Sherlock watching him steadily.

“Listen,” began John, “I really meant it, what I said his morning. I understand if you don’t want to share what’s bothering you, but don’t expect me not to ask and not to worry when it’s so plain to see that something is gnawing at you. It’s okay to be upset, you know. It’s okay to be distracted. Just don’t handle dangerous chemicals when you are.”

“Thank you, mother,” sneered Sherlock, but he had the decency to look guilty about his retort when John glared at him darkly.

Sherlock shifted a little, obviously uncomfortable, and glanced down at his violin before giving a small nod. When he lifted his eyes again, his expression was solemn and thoughtful. “What helped you?" 

John gazed at him confusedly. “When?”

Sherlock made a noncommittal gesture with the bow. “You know. When I was … away.”

John swallowed. How had the conversation come to this? “Walking. Running. Talking, once Ella had convinced me that I should. Hanging out with people – even my sister. Working, lots of that. Was this what you were trying to do with your experiment?”

“I need a case,” Sherlock stated darkly, frustration and even a hint of desperation plain in his voice.

“Obviously.”

They stood gazing at each other over the armchair while the smoulder in the grate subsided. “I really need to do something about that chimney,” muttered John. “If the winter turns out to be like the last, we’re going to need the fireplace.”

“How romantic,” commented Sherlock wryly.

“Yes, it is. Unless you burn something nasty in it.”

Sherlock looked at him before his brows knotted in frown. He cocked his head, his expression turning thoughtful as if he was remembering something. “Tasted?” he asked quietly.

“What? You know, sometimes your leaps of logic are extremely hard to follow.”

“Obviously. I don’t expect people to do so. I was just referring to something you said earlier. It’s not important.”

John studied him thoughtfully, trying to figure out how his line of reasoning had gone. _Chimney, fireplace, burning, cigarettes, smoking … oh._

“Yeah, tasted,” he said, feeling pleased at being able to surprise Sherlock who gazed at him in astonishment. “I can keep up with your thought processes, you know. Sometimes, at least. I recall warning you that I wouldn’t kiss you after you’d smoked.”

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. John thought he could see ‘not my area’ written all over his friend’s features. This was again bordering on relationship talk, and hit much closer to home than vague allusions to some family matter upsetting his friend. John knew he himself wasn’t particularly good at discussing issues between lovers, one of the reasons he usually tried to avoid it. But he was still way better at it and somewhat more experienced than Sherlock who now fidgeted a little, betraying his discomfort.

“I wasn’t sure if there was going to be any more kissing at all,” admitted Sherlock, his eyes on the violin and bow dangling from his hands.

John shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “Because of what happened this morning? Sherlock, I’ve told you before, I very much enjoyed what we did. It was just the timing that was bad. Nothing you did made me want to leave. On the contrary. Right, okay, I admit I was a bit surprised by your sudden … eagerness. But that didn’t mean I didn’t like it. Come on. You’re the only consulting detective in the world, and you observe and don’t just see, and I assume you feel just as well. You must have felt that ... well ... that I was pretty aroused by your kissing and even more by you sticking your hand down my pants. I had to take a bloody cold shower to function even halfway normally again.”

Sherlock raised his eyes from the violin to gaze at John. “The water takes approximately three minutes to heat up properly in the morning at this time of the year, and you were in a hurry, so naturally the shower would have been —”

“Don’t play smartarse with me,” growled John, undecided between feeling annoyed, exasperated or humoured by the typical Sherlockian comment. “You know precisely what I meant.”

Again Sherlock shifted, tapping his bow against his leg in a display of nerves. But he held John’s gaze, and for a moment they just looked at each other. Then Sherlock bit his lip. “Where you really lonely with me gone?” he asked tentatively. 

“I missed you, yes,” replied John earnestly. “The flat was far too quiet. I didn’t miss this, however,” he added, pointing over his shoulder at the mess in the kitchen. “Do you ever consider that this is Mrs. Hudson’s house and that she lives here, and I, too, and that it might be a bad idea to destroy it completely?”

“It’s only the table. I’ll replace it if it’s beyond repair, which I doubt. You yourself just told her that it can be salvaged, although it might have been a lie to calm her down. I poured essence of vinegar on the alkaline solution immediately since I didn’t have any other acids at hand. It should have neutralised most of it. Mrs. Hudson was never in any danger. Still, very thoughtful of you to buy the chocolates. She likes those in particular and usually keeps a box in the drawer of her bedside table, rationing the contents to truly savour each piece. She saves the seahorses for last, did you know? Therefore she is going to be much more amicable towards us.”

“How on earth do you know about what order she eats the sea creatures in, and what she keeps in her bedside table — ah no, better don’t answer that. And just so you know, the chocolates were for you, you git.”

Sherlock frowned, genuinely confused. “Why would you buy me chocolates?”

John sighed. “To apologise, and because old Mrs. McFarlane said they’re a good way of making peace. I felt rotten all morning for leaving you like this. Moreover I happen to know that you like nougat although you won’t admit it, and since you’re far too skinny after not eating properly for weeks, I considered them a good way to try and fatten you up a little.”

“I ate the Toblerone we brought from France.”

“Yeah, but little else, especially hardly anything with vitamins.”

“Actually, chocolate contains —”

“Sherlock,” warned John sternly. He wondered if Sherlock knew that it made him stand a little straighter, like a private to attention. John secretly relished the knowledge that his authoritative demeanour was having such an effect on the proud detective. “I won’t have any discussion about the health benefits of chocolate tonight. As it is, I’m going to go down and commandeer Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen for making us dinner because I don’t trust the danger zone you’ve created over there, vinegar or no. You, meanwhile, are going to clean up your mess in the kitchen – and yourself – so that we can actually sit down somewhere round here and have a meal.”

“I’m not —”

“Yes, you are. And you will eat. Is the fridge in a state I can put stuff in or do I have to expect poisonous specimens and a generous portion of caesium?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Nothing worse than usual. Some of the magnets and papers fell off in the explosion.”

John fought hard to suppress a smile. “Well, you can see to putting those up again, too, particularly the drawings the MP’s kids made for you for rescuing their kittens. I think they captured you very well." 

Sherlock scowled. “I look like a scarecrow with ridiculous hair and arms growing out of its head.”

John grinned. “Yep. Good match, as I said. They even got the red buttonhole right. Can’t accuse them of not observing properly, can you?”

Sherlock snorted indignantly, but for the first time this evening John thought he detected the trace of a true smile on his friend’s face.

 

**- <o>-**

 

John returned about half an hour later with a tray laden with two plates containing heated pie, the bread and a bowl of salad. After briefly reassuring Mrs. Hudson that Sherlock and he were going to be all right she had excused herself to watch _Strictly Come Dancing_ , leaving John to prepare dinner without having to entertain her by answering awkward questions.

He carried the tray directly into the living room, finding the desk partly cleared of its usual clutter and two sets of cutlery as well as glasses with water arranged there. With some apprehension about the state of the kitchen, he went to take a look. It still presented itself like a danger zone, but no worse than usual. The table had been cleared of the experiment and its trail of destruction. Only the blasted surface reminded of the incident. There were some scorch marks on the ceiling still and the smell of burnt plastic and vinegar lingered in the room, but Sherlock seemed to have made an effort in the short time. He had even restored the refrigerator’s magnetic ornaments. John fervently hoped he had worn some sort of protective clothing, though.

Pleased, John returned to the living room and after fiddling with the chimney draught stoked up the fire. Shortly after Sherlock appeared, his wet hair sleeked back with the odd curl sticking out, accentuating his high forehead and ageing him by a decade. He was wearing dark green buttoned pyjamas and his blue dressing gown. John noticed that not all soot had been washed away from his face, telling him that Sherlock hadn’t consulted a mirror and therefore hadn’t bothered shaving. For a moment John entertained himself by imagining his flatmate growing a full beard. How odd would that look? Would he even manage to? Had he perhaps sported a beard during his time abroad when he had needed to look unlike himself. The faint stubble suited him, John decided, although it would be scratchy to touch. Subsequently, he smiled about himself imagining these things and how natural worrying about scratchy stubble seemed to him by now.

Sherlock sat down at the table, eyeing the pie and salad on his plate critically. At that moment his stomach gave a traitorous rumble and the sighed. Bowing to the inconvenient but inevitable demands of his ‘transport’, he reached for the cutlery and began to attack the pie. They ate in silence. John didn’t know how to start a conversation now that a tentative armistice seemed to have been signed after the morning’s misunderstanding and the evening’s chemistry disaster. He knew that the matter was not settled, but he felt too tired to bring it up again tonight. Moreover he suspected that Sherlock who still appeared preoccupied with something weighing on his mind wasn’t going to be in a mood to pour out his heart to John.  

John watched him as he sat stabbing at his food. He had actually eaten most of it – so much for not being hungry – but was now absently chasing a slice of carrot with his fork, gazing at the smear of sauce it left on his plate. John thought he looked sad in the soft light from fire and desk lamp.

“Tea?” John asked.

Sherlock blinked, his hand jerking so that the carrot fell over the rim of the plate. “Sorry?”

“Do you want tea?” John repeated gently.

Sherlock gazed at him, then gave a nod. Rousing himself with a sigh, began stacking their plates into the empty salad bowl. “I’ll do the washing up.”

John’s eyebrows flew up in surprise.

“There’s still soot under my fingernails,” stated Sherlock, with a nod to his hands. “I’ll get the tea, too.”

John decided against uttering a wry comment on the rarity of the occurrence. “Thank you,” he said instead, standing also to fetch his laptop and then sink into his armchair. After the long, troublesome day in combination with the recent meal he felt weariness creep up to him as he listened to Sherlock filling and switching on the kettle and letting water run into the sink, followed by a clatter of plates and cutlery.

 

**- <o>-**

 

He was woken by Sherlock tuning his violin. Groggily, John rubbed his eyes, noticing that his laptop had been moved to the desk to save it from sliding from his knees, and that his tea was sitting on the small table next to his seat. It was still warm, indicating that John couldn’t have slept long. Sherlock was standing at the window on the other side of the desk.

“Do you mind?” the detective rumbled, his head bent and his gaze fixed on his instrument.

“No. As long as you play something enjoyable,” said John over the rim of his teacup.

“I can’t promise that,” replied Sherlock quietly, with what John interpreted as a trace of sadness.

And indeed, the music the instrument issued forth a short while later sounded strange. John did not recognise the tune in its entirety, although he thought there were passages he had heard before. It was ‘proper’ music, however, at times slow and sad, at times hauntingly beautiful like a majestic, awe-inspiring landscape or work of art, at others strangely discordant and jarring. Now and again Sherlock repeated passages with slight alterations. John began to suspect he was in fact composing. A memory of another incident of Sherlock letting the violin give voice to his emotions in a way he wasn’t willing or even able to with words came to mind.

Sherlock was facing the window meaning John could only see part of his face as he played. He didn’t note down passages like he sometimes did when he composed but seemed to know the general themes by heart, as if he had played them often before. John wondered what he was thinking about but understood that if he asked he wouldn’t receive an answer.

 

**- <o>-**

 

Sherlock did not even stop playing to drink his tea. Two hours or more later it still stood on the desk, now cold and entirely forgotten. John had spent the time looking for tables on the IKEA website. He also read the comments on his blog pertaining to their latest cases and replied to a few and edited or deleted others when they were of a more obnoxious kind. He debated whether to put the kitten shot online but decided to ask Sherlock first once his friend was in a communicative mood again. He also dared to have a look at the ‘johnlock’ tag on tumblr. He hadn’t done so since that memorable evening when Sherlock had discovered the site. With some trepidation he scrolled down the blog, but found little of note apart from the usual collection of fanart ranging from comical parody to romantic fluff to explicit variations of intercourse. Some were actually quite good from a purely artistic point of view, as much John considered himself able to judge that. Remembering their botched encounter in the morning, he wondered what those ‘fans’ would make of how awkward things really were between their ‘ship’.

With a sigh, he powered down the computer and put it aside. “I’m off to bed, Sherlock,” he announced. There was no reaction from the other who was still engrossed in his music. “I don’t have to work tomorrow,” John added, in the full knowledge that even if he had heard him, Sherlock was unlikely to understand the hinted suggestion and invitation. Drawing a deep breath, John picked up his teacup and carried it into the kitchen. Returning to the glass door, he gazed at his friend’s lithe frame swaying slightly in tune with his music. “Good night, Sherlock,” John said, receiving a low hum as a reply.

Upstairs in his bed he lay awake for a while, staring at the spot Sherlock had occupied the previous night. Why were things so complicated? Sure, he was to blame as well. He wasn’t the world’s foremost relationship expert, and this morning he hadn’t behaved very wisely to reassure anxious and inexperienced Sherlock. But why couldn’t the other be a little more … communicative? Why couldn’t he just tell John what was bothering him? Was it a matter of trust? Of pride? Another weird attempt a protecting John? If so, from whom or what?

John thumped his pillow at the prospect of an entire Sunday spent with a moody, sulky, downright emotional and upset Sherlock with no case to occupy them. He seriously considered contacting Greg or even Molly to ask whether either had something to entertain Sherlock for a day or two. A cold case, an interesting body, anything.

Faintly, the sound of the violin drifted up. The tune was sad but at the same time heart-wrenchingly beautiful. Again John thought he had heard parts of the melody before, shortly after Sherlock had returned from the dead and had reacquainted himself with his beloved violin recently relieved of John’s care. John wondered what Sherlock associated with this theme. He seemed to have composed it in his head while he’d been away, to then bring it to life once he held the instrument in his hands again. John had no idea, but not a small part of him hoped that he, too, featured in Sherlock’s thoughts when he was coaxing such beautiful sounds from a piece of wood, wire and guts. Gradually, he drifted asleep, the haunting tunes creeping into his dreams.

 

**- <o>-**

 

He woke with a start, tangled in his duvet. He could not recall having had a nightmare, although he memory of disquieting and upsetting images lingered. His mobile showed 2:32 am, meaning he had slept for over three hours. Just as he was about to return the phone to his bedside table and settle down again, he became aware of the half open door and a shadow lingering next to it.

“Sherlock?”

The shadow shifted and approached. “I didn’t want to wake you,” it rumbled.

“I don’t think you did. Must have dreamed something odd.”

Sherlock’s silhouette inclined its head. “I came to fetch the newspapers,” he explained, nodding towards the stack still mounting next to John’s bed. John wondered if that really was the reason for his visit. There had been several instances in the past when he had woken from a nightmare to find a trace of Sherlock’s scent lingering in his room. At one time there had even been an indentation in the duvet at the foot of his bed as if his friend had sat there in silent vigil. “I really need a case and there’s nothing on the website and Lestrade won’t answer his phone.”

John ran a hand over his eyes. “Likely because the poor man’s asleep, like most people at this time of night. Don’t text or call him again tonight, yeah? If he thinks something good’s come up he’ll get in touch, I’m sure.”

Sherlock made an unhappy, impatient sound. He had reached the side of the bed but it was too dark in the room for John to properly see his features. Apparently the streetlamp across the street at died at some time during the night. He switched on his bedside lamp, groaning slightly at the bright light.

“I’ve ordered a new table,” Sherlock announced, blinking as well. John knew that his eyes were very sensitive to light. Sherlock pulled a face. “Should be here Tuesday. It has two drawers, too, which should come in handy for storing some of my science equipment.”

“Good,” nodded John. “If it’s from IKEA wait for me before you assemble it, okay. We don’t want a repeat of the shelf massacre in 221C.”

“You said yourself the shelf is much more functional this way. I improved it and adapted it for our bicycles.”

“Yeah, and you almost sawed off your hand in the process. You needed three stitches, for God’s sake. Please, do me the favour and wait for me.”

“All right,” Sherlock grumbled. He didn’t make a move to retrieve the newspapers but remained standing somewhat awkwardly at the side of the bed.

Not knowing whether the invitation was going to be welcome, John decided to risk it anyway. “You can join me, you know. Get some sleep and look for a case tomorrow.”

Sherlock’s figure stiffened very slightly. “I don’t think I can sleep tonight. Not here, anyway.”

John tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice. “Okay. Fine. Do try and get some rest nonetheless. And please know that the offer extends to other nights as well. Your own room must still reek of your botched experiment. So … yeah. Feel free to kip here if you like.”

Sherlock stood very still for a moment before his head jerked in a brief nod. “Thank you.” After a moment’s hesitation, he shuffled closer and bent down to gather up the papers. “Did you do the crosswords?”

“Only one. And two sudokus. The rest I saved for you.”

“They’re ridiculously easy, but might do for some light entertainment until tomorrow. Good night, John.”

“Night, Sherlock,” replied John, watching him head towards the door. At the foot of the bed Sherlock stopped again, half turning but not gazing at John. “I brushed my teeth,” he stated in a low voice.

John frowned for a moment at the strange statement before realisation dawned and he felt a jolt in his chest. How could this strange, often abrasive and difficult man be so utterly dear and adorable at the same time? He smiled. “Is that so?” 

Sherlock nodded. “Twice.”

“Want me to check if you did it properly.”

Sherlock set the newspapers down and fully turned to John. “I’d appreciate that,” he stated seriously.

Grinning broadly now, John crawled out of bed. The room was cold, the floor in particular under his bare feet. For a moment he wondered whether Sherlock was wearing socks and if yes if they were his own or a pair pilfered from John. He glanced down. The socks were Sherlock’s own but still looked ridiculous peeping out of his slightly too short pyjama trousers.

Then John stood in front of the other, gazing up. Sherlock stood very still. His breath smelled strongly of peppermint when he exhaled with the slightest of tremors to his breathing, betraying nervousness. John realised that apparently Sherlock had indeed harboured some fears that John might not be interested in kissing him anymore. _You silly, awkward, beautiful man_ , thought John fondly. _How do you imagine I could possibly resist that mouth of yours after having been allowed to taste it?_

Slowly, John reached out and brushed his hand along Sherlock’s cheek to then draw his head down. Sherlock sighed and even sagged slightly as if in relief when John’s lips met his. At first, he let himself be kissed gently as if uncertain how (or with what intensity) to reply, before gradually easing into the kiss. It remained a slow, tender if lengthy affair, lips and tongues moving gently together before John drew back.

“Well?” asked Sherlock when John made a show of licking his lips as if trying out the taste.

“I can’t detect any trace of tobacco, so well done,” he announced his verdict, brushing a strand of hair from Sherlock’s forehead. Sherlock’s teeth showed briefly in a smile.  “Did you floss, too?”

Sherlock sniffed. “Of course.”

John smiled. He knew that Sherlock took his personal hygiene quite seriously – apart from those times when he wallowed in a monumental sulk oblivious of the world. For his personal amusement, John had taken to recording the times when Sherlock wandered round the flat with his toothbrush in his mouth because he was on a case and had forgotten about ending his brushing session. The record time so far was 51 minutes and 38 seconds.

“You might want to check, though,” Sherlock now suggested slyly.

John grinned and kissed him again, more thoroughly this time but still careful not to overdo it as Sherlock seemed reluctant to engage in some more serious snogging.

“Good work, Sherlock,” John praised him when they parted. “Hope there’s some toothpaste left for tomorrow morning.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I didn’t eat it. Although come to think of it, I used to as a child.”

John sighed, shaking his head. “You know, sometimes I wonder how you ever managed to reach your thirties.”

Even though he had spoken lightly, a change came over Sherlock’s expression. His head drooped ever so slightly, his lips narrowed and he swallowed. “Yes, so do I,” Sherlock said, his voice deep and flat. Then, as if snatching out of some sad thought or memory, he lifted his head. Hesitating for a second, he leaned forward and kissed John’s forehead. “Good night, John.”

“Night, Sherlock,” replied John, touched by the gesture. “Just so you know, my offer still stands.” John pointed at the bed. Sherlock seemed to actually consider it before shaking his head. “Not tonight. But I’ll keep it in mind.”

With that, he picked up the newspapers and left the room, closing the door behind him with his foot. John sat down on the bed and pinched the bridge of his nose. What had this been all about? Not that he minded the kissing and all that, but the entire encounter had been weird and suffused with a strangely melancholic air. He fervently hoped that Sherlock would indeed find a case, because John didn’t like the prospect of dealing with more sadness and irritability for the rest of the weekend.

He switched off the lamp and lay down again staring at the ceiling. If nothing came up, he’d phone Molly tomorrow. Maybe she had some interesting samples for Sherlock to study. Or they actually might do something together. Visit a museum or exhibition, perhaps. Wasn’t the renovated Early European collection due to reopen at the British Museum this month? Would Sherlock be interested in it? They had some bog bodies, after all. Then an idea struck John. Reaching for his mobile, he checked the next day’s weather forecast. It was going to be fairly cold but dry for a change, with even the possibility of a few sunny spells. John set the phone down with a smile. That might just work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first illustration for this chapter is entitled ["Composing"](http://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/63636528404/composing-illustration-and-teaser-for-chapter-4)
> 
> The second drawing is called ["I brushed my teeth"](http://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/65834914290/i-brushed-my-teeth-a-second-illustration)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again thanks to all who commented and left kudos, and sorry for the delay. My phone ate the first bit of the chapter and I had to rewrite it from scratch. But at least this chapter is longer than the previous ones, and like this I can post it on the very day it's set, Sunday November 3rd. Next chapter should finally get the boys started on the case.

John woke to sunlight streaming through the panels of the blind. The weather forecast seemed to have been right in its predictions for today, at least concerning the sunny spells. The soft toll of a church bell informed John that it was a quarter to nine. Despite his night having been interrupted by Sherlock’s visit, a stormy shower rattling the roof, and weird and partly disquieting dreams, images of which still lingered on the edge of memory but just out of conscious grasp, he felt surprisingly well rested.

For a while he just lay cocooned in the warmth of his bed, absently watching the sunny stripes distort the pattern of Mrs. Hudson’s 1970s style wallpaper. He relished the thought that he didn’t have to work this Sunday. Traffic up and down Baker Street was very moderate, and even down on busy Marylebone Road only a soft hum hinted at cars going to and fro. The wind was still strong, gusty blasts sighing outside the window and tearing at Speedy’s awning down below, but thankfully they weren’t of the same force as the ferocious St. Jude storm last Monday. The flat was quiet apart from a soft gurgling in the pipes. Apparently the heating was struggling again. They really needed someone to have a look at it before winter arrived, particularly if that turned out to be as cold and snowy as the last.

John sighed. The previous winter he had spent neither in this room nor in this flat. He’d fled the place because of the ghost of Sherlock lingering in the bullet holes of the smiley face downstairs, the science equipment on the kitchen table, and the silk dressing gown hanging from a hook in his bedroom. It had been too much to bear, too oppressive in its silence and lack of a living, breathing, chaos-wreaking Sherlock in all his brilliance and glory.

There was an absence of Sherlockian sounds now, too. John listened more closely for footsteps downstairs, the sound of a chair being dragged over the kitchen floor, or the flush of shower or toilet. Nothing. Either Sherlock was out or he was asleep. Perhaps he had found a case last night and was engrossed in the details, wandering the curious passages of his mind palace. John fervently hoped he had found something to occupy himself with. He did not relish a repeat of yesterday’s disasters, and he wasn’t sure if the emergency distraction he had planned for today was going to work if Sherlock was still moody and bored, and worse, upset. With another sigh, he scrambled out of bed. Time to face whatever awaited him downstairs.

 

**- <o>-**

 

After a brief visit to the loo he cautiously stepped into the kitchen. The partly destroyed table was still uncluttered, meaning Sherlock hadn’t devised any more experiments last night, which John thoroughly approved of.

John found the man himself in the living room, lounging on the sofa with the woollen blanket from John’s armchair spread over his legs and a pile of pillows in his back, propping him up into a sitting position. Newspapers were scattered on the floor next to him. Several lay in various states of perusal on the coffee table. Right on top John could see one of the crossword pages adorned with Sherlock’s spidery handwriting. And of course he hadn’t just filled in the required terms but added annotations – corrections – to almost all of the questions. John wondered if he were to present his flatmate with an encyclopaedia whether this would suffer the same fate as the crosswords. _Well, most entries,_ he thought, _apart from the astronomy section._

Sherlock was still wearing his pyjamas and robe. A laptop was resting on his legs – his own for a change. He was gazing at the screen intently. His eyes were darting to and fro and his hand was constantly moving on the trackpad as he was reading at high speed. A deep frown furrowed the bridge of his nose. He looked as if he didn’t like whatever information the text or website he was currently perusing contained.

He looked tired, too, his hair sticking up at odd angles again, shadows under his eyes, the lines to both sides of his nose more prominent. John wasn’t sure whether Sherlock had slept at all until at a closer he detected the faint impression of the seams of the sofa’s leather cushions on one cheek. _Passed out on the couch again instead of sleeping in a proper bed._ John shook his head. That man, brilliant and singular as he was, nevertheless often seemed like a giant toddler who constantly needed someone to look after and entertain him.

He had not acknowledged John’s presence although John was sure he had noticed him.

“Morning, Sherlock,” he greeted him.

Sherlock grunted, dealt the enter key a harsh stab and closed the laptop with a snap.

“Morning,” he replied, his voice rough which told John that he hadn’t had anything to drink in a while. “Whether it’s good or bad remains to be seen.”

“Any luck with finding a case?”

Sherlock set the laptop on the table and bent forward ruffling his hair in a display of frustration.

“Nothing more interesting than a two and half, three at best. Were all the criminals on vacation while I was away? Or has the Met been efficient for once?”

John shrugged. “Don’t know. I didn’t follow the news that closely.” He walked over to the coffee table and read some of Sherlock’s niggling annotations to the crossword.

“Told you they’d be easy,” grumbled the detective. “Didn’t expect them to be so wrong, too. Malachite, for example, is a kind of copper carbonate, not sulfate. It was the only word that fit, though. Morons.”

“Nice of you to correct them,” John replied good-naturedly. “Did you inform them of the error of their ways?”

Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes. “Of course.”

John sighed. “Thought so. Did you use language that at least bordered on polite?”

“John, I’m not entirely inept when it comes to these things. I can be very polite when I choose to be.”

John decided not to enquire further. Stepping over to the window, he pulled away the curtain, revealing a large spider that had taken refuge behind it.

“Leave it,” said Sherlock. “It entertained me for half an hour last night by running over the floor in various directions and trying to hide under the carpet. Did you know that some drugs that are hugely dangerous for humans affect spiders and their web-spinning abilities only marginally, while substances like caffeine which only serve as a mild stimulant for us cause them to produce most unusual and barely functional webs? I have an article on it somewhere on the right hand shelf.”

John gave the spider a pitiful look. “Well, you better run for it while you can, mate, before you end up as Sherlock’s guinea pig.” The spider did not stir, apparently unfazed by the potential danger it was in. John smiled to himself and gazed out at sleepy Baker Street, the sunlight warm on his face. The street was almost deserted but for a eddy of leaves the wind was chasing along it and a woman entering her flat with two bags of shopping. 

Turning to Sherlock, John glanced down at his tousled head as the other was busy picking at a loose thread in the blanket. “Listen, Sherlock, I’ve been thinking ...”

John thought he could actually hear the eyebrow arching and prepared himself for the wry comment that inevitably was about to follow. He wasn’t disappointed. “Oh? And what might have been the reason for so extraordinary an activity? And on a Sunday morning, no less.”

“You should be more civil on a Sunday morning. After all, you might be interested in the result,” returned John.

“And what might be the result?” enquired Sherlock, gazing up at John over his shoulder.

John shrugged. “Why don’t you deduce it, genius?”

Sherlock made a strange, rumbling noise which to John sounded almost pleased. After a brief moment’s deliberation the detective shifted his legs from the sofa, sat up and turned so that he could see John properly.

Cocking his head slightly, he bent his keen eyes on the other. By now John had ceased to feel self-conscious at this relentless scrutiny, despite a thrill chasing down his spine at having another person show so much interest in him and invest time to note every little detail.

Sherlock drew a deep breath and off went the deduction. “You don’t have to work today hence you didn’t set your alarm and, for your standards, slept late which might also have been brought on by the stressful events of yesterday and your interrupted sleep last night. You were in no hurry this morning, evidenced by the several minutes you remained in bed, most likely enjoying the warmth and praising your lack of obligations today. Your relaxed attitude to this morning’s proceedings is further indicated by the fact you haven’t dressed yet but are still in your nightclothes. You have, however, donned a robe and a pair of your warm woollen socks. Given the capricious behaviour of the heating at the moment you couldn’t be sure that the flat was going to be warm enough without them. This means you were planning to spend some time in pyjamas before getting dressed properly, at least long enough for preparing and consuming a lengthy breakfast and reading the papers. You aren’t attired in your usual comfortable house wear, though, meaning you plan to go out at a point not too long after breakfast. The fact you haven’t showered or shaved rules out pursuits that would require you to make yourself presentable, at least according to your standards – for me you are presentable in any state. Therefore, it’s unlikely you are going to visit a museum or gallery today, or even take a stroll in the park or the Zoo, Camden or Hampstead Heath, or any other of your usual haunts. You did study the weather, though, which indicates planned outdoor activities, but none that require you to dress up or try and tame your hair. So, sport it is. The fact you were contemplating breakfast – you inspected the kitchen after leaving the bathroom, obviously to reassure yourself that I hadn’t created another mess there over night – before venturing out rules out running as you prefer to do that on an almost empty stomach to prevent cramps, meaning ... oh!”

John smiled broadly as Sherlock’s eyes lit up. Did the man even know how beautiful he was in moments of intellectual bliss? “You’re cordially invited to join me,” John told him happily. “Both for breakfast and the cycling afterwards.”

Sherlock glanced at him steadily. “Is this an attempt at keeping me occupied and distracted to prevent further damage to the flat and myself?”

“Yes. And at keeping you fed. I’m not sure the flat, I or Mrs. Hudson could possibly cope with any more chemical hazards this weekend, and your friend the spider will surely thank you for not using any drugs on it, either.”

Sherlock frowned, his expression turning grave. “You don’t have to do this, John,” he said quietly.

“I know I don’t. But I want to. Who knows if we’re going to have another fair day this year. I feel I need some exercise. Moreover I want to spend time with you. There, that’s the main reason. That, and the fact that cycling means that you’ll be wearing tight cycling gear. Now this would greatly add to my delight in your company.”

He smiled when a flush crept over Sherlock’s cheeks. “I’m not sure we can do that, John,” he said seriously.

“Why not?” asked John, frowning at him in mild disappointment until he saw the mischievous twinkle in Sherlock’s eyes.

Sherlock stretched and rose, pulling his dressing gown about him and belting it. “Well, London’s drivers are irresponsible and inattentive idiots at the best of times. Imagine their distraction and the resulting traffic nightmare if John Watson cycles past them in skin tight cycling shorts.”

Now it was John’s turn to blush. It always felt strange to receive compliments on his features or physique from someone as handsome if unusual looking as Sherlock. It felt bloody good, though.

Therefore, smirking at Sherlock, he raised an eyebrow. “Will _you_ manage to concentrate? Ah, but you tend to ride in front of me, anyway.”

Sherlock snorted. “I have perfect self-control,” he boasted.

 _Yeah_ , thought John wryly, _we saw that yesterday morning_. With a haughty gaze, Sherlock challenged him to comment but John knew it would be wiser not to.

“Well?” demanded Sherlock. “Do I get breakfast now or not?”

John grinned. “On my way.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

After a breakfast spent in companionable silence and a joint visit to the bathroom afterwards to brush their teeth, John went upstairs to get dressed. Withdrawing his cycling clothes from his wardrobe and spreading them out on the bed, he realised that most weren’t exactly fit for riding in low temperatures. Even though the sun was out, according to the weather forecast on his mobile temperatures were around eleven degrees on average, not taking into account wind and the occasional rainy shower. Scratching his chin, he went about collecting everything that might add a bit of warmth. He didn’t have any long cycling pants, but he had what he’d jokingly termed cycling stockings, warmers for both his legs and his arms. The rest would have to be done with layers.

Returning downstairs dressed in what hoped was going to be warm enough, he found Sherlock in front of the living room mirror adjusting what looked like a pirate scarf on his head. John had a similar bandana to wear under his helmet to keep his head and ears warm. Sherlock, too, had obviously donned several layers of clothing but still managed to not look bulky.

“Childhood dream come true, eh?” John teased. “Got an eye-patch to go with it?”

“Very funny,” returned Sherlock, zipping up his windstopper jacket. John tried not to gaze too obviously and too longingly at a pair of long legs encased in tight black lycra. “Ready to go?” asked Sherlock.

“Yeah, although I feel like the Michelin Man in all these layers.”

Sherlock turned to him and gave him a long appraising glance. He didn’t comment, but John saw him swallow ever so slightly. John couldn’t help blushing and quickly lowered his gaze to his hands to adjust his cycling gloves. “We’ll have to check the brakes before we set out, and see if there’s enough air in the tubes, particularly on your bike. I cycled to work a few times last month before there was all that rain and storm, but yours has barely been moved since France.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

Their Simplon road bikes had been stored in disused 221C in Sherlock’s modified IKEA shelf unit. A brief check of brakes and gear-shift and a few pumps of air into Sherlock’s bike’s rear tube had them both ready and they carried the bicycles outside, leaning them against the wrought iron fence next to the door while they donned their helmets.

“Where do we go?” asked John while adjusting his helmet-strap and putting on his sunglasses.

“Up north,” suggested Sherlock. “We can take the route along Regent’s Park and up Finchley Road towards Golders Green and beyond to Barnet, to then return via Hampstead and Highgate before the Heath is overrun by people walking off their lunch.”

“Sounds great,” agreed John over the click of his shoes hooking into the cleats of the pedals. “Lead the way.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

Despite the layers of clothing John was wearing, the air felt indeed cold when they set out, particularly whenever they cycled in the shade of buildings or scantily leaved trees, or when the sun was hidden behind fast-moving clouds. Sherlock set a brisk pace right from the start, making John a little breathless but helped him warm up quickly. Despite feeling a little out of shape, John knew that his idea to take the bikes and Sherlock out today had been a good one. Traffic on their chosen route was light and the views of white Georgian architecture catching the level sunlight were beautiful. Last weekend’s gale St. Jude had stripped most of the trees bare, but the remaining coloured leaves on the trees in Regent’s Park were glowing in warm shades in the sunlight. John appreciated the clear, bright colours, a welcome change after the grey, wet dreariness of the past days.

However, the beauty of London on a sunny day in late autumn fell short of that of Sherlock’s expression when at a red light he turned to gaze at John over his shoulder. His eyes were burning in his flushed face and he was smiling, a real, happy smile that made John’s heart leap. Oh yes, this had been exactly the right choice. At least for a while sunlight and exercise and the sight of his beloved London seemed to have made Sherlock forget his worries and the frustration over the lack of cases and mental stimulation. Riding behind him, John saw him constantly gaze this way and that, soaking up the view, noticing a million more little details about their surroundings than John and storing them away in that magnificent brain of his. After all, one never knew when they’d come in handy for the Work.

Nevertheless, despite his obvious enjoyment of the ride Sherlock could not quite hide the fact that there were still darker matters preoccupying him. Sometimes when John rode up to him and was able to catch a glimpse of his expression his features were contorted in a frown or he was biting his lip as if lost in serious and not pleasurable thought. John recalled that Sherlock had repeatedly claimed that cycling helped him think. Was he thinking about the convoluted family affair that seemed to have taken such a toll on his emotional wellbeing?

They didn’t talk much apart from minor remarks about immediate directions. The pace remained fairly fast even uphill, with Sherlock riding in front with his trademark clockwork cadence that would have been the pride of any professional time trialist. Knowing that apart from running around on cases his flatmate hadn’t engaged in any real sportive activity lately, John marvelled at Sherlock’s fitness. Himself, he had run repeatedly in the park or walked or cycled to work when time and weather allowed. Therefore he considered himself in rather good shape, too. Nevertheless he was certain that he was going to feel today’s exercise in the form of sore muscles tomorrow.

They weren’t the only bikers on the road, cycling becoming ever more popular in London lately. Around Swiss Cottage they overtook a large group of tourists on Boris bikes struggling up Finchley Road, to then be overtaken in turn by two very fit looking middle-aged women in professional attire who smiled at them and spurred them on jokingly, to be met by a dark glare from Sherlock.

“Hey, be nice,” John called to him when the women had left them behind. “They were only teasing.”

“They were flirting with you,” grumbled Sherlock.

John laughed. “And that’s not allowed? Actually, I feel rather flattered. And I didn’t flirt back, did I?”

“You returned their greeting.”

“Which was only polite and wouldn’t have done you any harm, either. Moreover, what are you complaining about? The two ladies were nice, but that’s it. Fit and good looking, yes, from an objective point of view. And they had good bikes. But I’ve been having the pleasure of staring at your legs and arse for the past half hour. I certainly won’t be needing any more visual highlights today.”

Sherlock cleared his throat like he often did when John had managed to embarrass or flatter him. “Well ... right. Good. I think it’s time you rode in front for a bit. You’ve been sucking up the slipstream long enough now.”

John grinned broadly, aware of Sherlock’s true intention for the swap. “My pleasure.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

Passing through Golders Green they cycled a long round through the northern boroughs of London, keeping off the main roads and mostly passing through residential areas and along parks and golf courses before returning to Hampstead. The plan was to cut across the Heath to Highgate. Since most of the tracks crossing the mixture of open grassland, ponds and copses of forest on Hampstead Heath were closed for cyclists, their choice of pathways was limited. Luckily Sherlock’s internal map of London was as immaculate as ever and switching positions again, he led the way down one of the asphalted tracks that would take them past Kenwood House to the eastern side of the tamed wilderness.

The combination of fair weather and Sunday meant, as Sherlock had predicted, that the Heath was beginning to get crowded with Londoners and the odd tourist enjoying the outdoors. John caught glimpses of people letting kites fly on the open spaces while others were running or walking. Many were playing with their dogs or chasing after their children who’d gone adventuring in the hazel thickets or underneath the oaks, or were wading through the mud in the hollows where alders and willows grew out of high grasses and brambles. John wondered if kids nowadays were still looking for chestnuts and acorns to make little animals from like he and his sister had done when they’d been around ten. Back then they’d enjoyed joining the nuts together with toothpicks and selling them for a few pennies to passers by from a stall fashioned from an overturned wooden crate. _Well, if they do they’re likely selling their crafts on Ebay now_ , he thought with a smile. _At least this year there’s plenty of acorns and nuts_. _Hope this doesn’t mean we’ll be getting another cold and snowy winter._

He swerved to avoid a drift of leaves that covered half the path, having seen Sherlock do the same in front of him as they were rolling down a small descent. The leaves were often wet and slippery under their narrow tyres, meaning they had to exercise extra care. To their left, the line of trees flanking the road grew less dense. John saw Sherlock stretch a little in the saddle and gaze in that direction as if he’d spotted something and wanted to point it out to John. Then hell broke loose.

In retrospect John couldn’t recall why he hadn’t seen it coming. One moment he’d been enjoying a slight descent, letting his bike roll along with some distance to Sherlock, the next there was an angry bark, a screech of brakes, an uncharacteristically vile curse from Sherlock and a crash.

John braked too, hard, his stomach jumping slightly when he felt he rear wheel lose grip on the slippery surface of the road. But he regained control over his bike, coming to a halt next to Sherlock. The detective was lying on his side in the leafy mud next to the tarmac, his feet still fixed to the pedals, looking a bit like a large dark beetle upended helplessly on its back. With one hand he was trying to lift the bike off himself, while with the other he was warding off a small fluffy dog trying to get close enough to lick his face. Sherlock didn’t seem hurt despite falling over but he did appear to be genuinely angry. The animal, some kind of terrier, was unperturbed by the animosity, barking excitedly and jumping around Sherlock, a few leaves caught in its long coat. John estimated that most likely the dog, running around unleashed, had dashed out of the thicket to the right side of the track and surprised Sherlock who’d in turn had pulled both brakes, stopped dead or slipped, and failing to free his feet of the pedals had fallen over. On one occasion this had happened to John, too, his fall albeit not caused by canine interference, and he knew that in most cases a fall like this was more embarrassing than dangerous.

Nevertheless he thought it important to check whether anything other than Sherlock’s ego had been hurt. “Hey, Sherlock, you all right? Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine. Or rather I would be if you got this dratted thing away from me,” Sherlock groused, swatting at the dog with his gloved hand. “Get it off, the stupid thing. What have I always told you about idiotic dog owners?”

“Shhh,” soothed John. “Not so loud. There they come.” He glanced over his shoulder at two children running towards them and calling their pet agitatedly. The calling did not show much success, however, the terrier being one of those dogs that only obeyed when it suited them. Still, seeing the children John couldn’t find it in him to be angry. “They’re two little girls,” he informed Sherlock in a low voice, “so please don’t be too harsh even if it was their fault. Let me talk to them. Come on, I’ll help you up. Sure you haven’t hurt yourself?”

Sherlock nodded. Finally the dog let off of him, having found a new victim in John which it approached barking gleefully, yapping at his legs.

“Lenny, come here, come here,” the girls cried, but Lenny thought John far more interesting than his owners and continued to assail him. John tried to ignore him while extending a hand to Sherlock who had finally managed to unclip his feet from the pedals. John pulled him and his bicycle up. Sherlock stood wiping mud from the elbow of his jacket and picking leaves and twigs off his legs, all the while giving Lenny the dog a deadly glare.

“Get this dratted thing out of my sight,” he hissed, looking like he was preparing to kick the dog. Lenny seemed to sense that his attention was not particularly well received by the two men in the strange clothes and finally let off to return to his owners. One of the girls who John reckoned to be around ten picked the terrier up and cuddled it while the other, a year or two older perhaps, approached them with a trace of caution. She looked apologetic and a bit intimidated, likely by Sherlock’s glowering.

“Has he been hurt?” she asked, not really indicating whether she was referring to Sherlock or Lenny.

“No, luckily not,” replied John quickly before Sherlock could fall in. “But you really need to keep your dog on a leash, because like this not only Sherlock could have been hurt, but Lenny, too. Imagine he’d gotten into the spokes or been run over by the bike. So please, take more care in the future.”

The girl nodded. “He ran off after a rabbit,” she said apologetically. “He’s never done that before.”

“That’s why you need the leash,” John told her. “Always. He might do something unpredictable at any time.” Seeing the girl’s distress, he clamped down on any anger he felt about their irresponsibility. Hopefully the lesson had been learned now. And indeed the second girl had set down the dog again and was busy attaching a lead to its collar.

There was a contemptuous snort from behind John. “He’ll be running round without constraints again tomorrow,” Sherlock stated darkly, wiping dirt from his sunglasses that had been swiped off his nose in the fall. Straightening even more and assuming what John liked to describe as his looming stance, Sherlock stepped closer and glanced down at the two girls. John raised a hand in caution, but Sherlock’s brain and tongue were already running full speed as he deduced the girls. John closed his eyes briefly. Chances were high that this was going to end in ‘not good’ territory.

“You’re sisters, living in Hampstead not far from the Heath judging from your clothing, your parents are well to do but spend a lot of time away at work. You”, he pointed at the elder of the girls, “play a stringed instrument, violin or viola, which you practise regularly, and are passionate about horseback riding, with a horse or rather a pony at a local stable particularly dear to you that unfortunately your parents won’t buy. Your sister plays tennis and likes football, hoping to play for Arsenal when she is older. You both attend a private school and sing in the choir of St-John-at-Hampstead, performing at which you skipped today because of the weather and because you wouldn’t have been able to take your dog along to choir rehearsal. Recently there’s been trouble in your perfect family life, though. Your parents have less and less time for you, indicated by the fact that you are taking the dog out on your own without them accompanying you, even in an area so vast as the Heath where usually children aren’t seen unaccompanied because of their parents’ concerns about their safety. Your parents, however, are at the moment far too occupied with themselves than wondering where you spend your afternoons. As it is, they are likely fighting amongst themselves and are about to get a divorce. Hence the dog, a peace offering to keep you placid as you’ve been nagging them about a pet for a long time. Well, enjoy it as long as you can. Who knows which of you is going to get to keep it once you’ve been divided up between—“

“Sherlock, enough!” John interrupted him sternly. The two girls were staring at the detective with bewildered expressions that quickly turned to dismay as his words sank in.

Sherlock’s head swept round to John. “Why?”

“Because it wasn’t nice,” the younger girl piped up before John managed to reply. She had squared her thin shoulders and was looking up at Sherlock defensively. “I’m sorry that Lenny made you fall over, but that wasn’t nice at all. You need better manners,” she told Sherlock sternly. John wondered where she had picked up that expression. He tried hard not to smile.

“It was true, though,” muttered the elder, her gaze down for a moment before she looked up at Sherlock thoughtfully. “How did you know all this?”

Sherlock looked startled, obviously not having reckoned with being involved in a conversation. “I simply observe. Some things like the choir rehearsal were obvious as your sister keeps a flyer in the pocket of her coat. Her fascination with Arsenal can be seen in the traces of pen on her arm where she wrote the names of her favourite players and drew the club’s logo. You both wear standardised shoes, expensive ones, which indicate they belong to some kind of uniform, a school’s, most likely. The rest of your clothes is quite expensive, too. Your scarf is part of a school uniform, too, the embroidered logo telling me you attend South Hampstead High School, a local all girls private institution.”

“How did you know about the horses?” asked the younger girl, her eyes wide in wonder. John recognised the expression as one he never ceased to wear around Sherlock, either.

“Traces of manure on your sister’s shoes. You visited the stables instead of going to choir practice. Since there are no stables near the Heath, you either took the Tube or bus to Finchley or you ride privately. The horse motif on your jumper further indicates your fascination, and you wear a bracelet with a horse in a distinctive gait on it and a name, “Fríður” which is an Icelandic name, indicating you particularly like an Icelandic horse.”

“How do you know about our parents?” asked the elder, her expression grave.

To John’s surprise, Sherlock hesitated. “I guessed,” he admitted at length. “But correctly, judging from your reactions.”

The elder girl nodded, looking thoughtful and rather sad for a moment before visibly steeling herself. “Come on, Liz, let’s go.” She put a hand to her sister’s shoulder and began to steer her away.

Liz gave Sherlock a long glance over her shoulder before following her sister.

“Well, they seemed to have taken it rather well,” declared Sherlock when they were out of earshot.

John shook his head. “Still, it wasn’t kind breaking that kind of news to them, particularly if you just guessed about their parents.”

“I assure you that no lasting damage has been done. Better to know and accept the facts than stay in the dark for too long and be confronted with the truth at their parents’ convenience,” said Sherlock, his voice hard.

John turned to him fully. “I don’t know. They looked pretty shaken, and not just from your deduction. Was that really necessary?”

“I didn’t tell them anything they didn’t already know,” said Sherlock stiffly. “At least not the elder of them. Believe me, it’s better in the long term.”

“Yes, but still. Don’t you think she’s got enough on her plate with her familial situation as you described it? Likely they just came out here to get away from the stress at home for a while, and then bam, a strange man is attacked by their dog and repays them by confronting them with exactly what they wanted to forget for a while. Brilliant. You know, sometimes a little tact wouldn’t go amiss, even with you. Had you spoken like this to their parents, okay. But they’re kids." 

“They’ll cope,” insisted Sherlock. John was surprised and even a little shocked by the fierce conviction in his voice. Had Sherlock had a similar experience in the past? Based on everything John had picked up between the lines, he was almost convinced. _Yeah, they’ll cope_ , he thought cynically. _The same way you have coped all those years. I just hope they won’t blow anything up to vent their frustration._

“They should simply have kept their dog restrained,” added Sherlock stubbornly. “None of this would have happened.”

John gave him a long glance, wondering once more what Sherlock had been like as a child. Did he spend as much time as possible outside or at least away from his family because of troubles with or between his parents? Sherlock usually claimed he disliked the outdoors (not counting London), but John knew this to be a lie. Once Sherlock had acclimatised himself, he seemed to revert back to an adventurous twelve year old, ready to look for rare plants or strange creatures, crawl through thickets and climb trees. Had this been his escape as a child when his home became too stifling? At some point he had mentioned something about an ant experiment he’d been forced to abandon because he’d been grounded indoors and forbidden to visit the garden as a punishment. Did this indicate that Sherlock had loved to be outside as a child? Once more John wished he knew more about his friend’s past beyond the rumours and twisted falsehoods of the tabloids, or the hints and snippets caught in conversation or deduced or inferred from reading between the lines of what Sherlock had so far revealed.

“Well,” John sighed, gazing along the track they’d been following and up which the two girls with their dog had vanished, “I think this lesson has been learned quite thoroughly. What about you? Are you really unhurt? Bike okay, too?”

“I’m fine, John,” Sherlock assured him, his mood obviously lifting because of John’s concern. “The bike seems undamaged, too, which is the girls’ luck, although no doubt their parents’ insurance would have covered the replacement of one of these Simplons. At least the dog didn’t bite me this time.”

“Oh, right, I recall you telling me you’ve been bitten before,” mused John, stepping up to him and flicking a leaf and some pieces of bark from his shoulder. “Didn’t that happen back at uni? Did you fall off your bicycle then, too?”

“Yes, after the dratted dog had attached itself to my leg. It even was a similar breed, a terrier, but not a Dandie Dinmont but a larger one.”

John grinned at the breed’s name. “What happened? Did you sue the owner? Who was it?”

“A fellow student. And no, I didn’t sue him, although he was keen to make amends.”

Sherlock bit his lower lip, his expression turning thought- and even a little wistful. Then he shook himself. “Let’s return home. The wind is getting stronger and the sun is gone. It’s going to rain soon by the looks of it. Despite that there are bound to be more unleashed idiots about and I’d prefer to avoid any more close encounters with them, their dogs, or the ground.”

“Okay,” agreed John. “It’s getting rather fresh indeed, now that we’re not moving. I quite look forward to a hot shower now and then some food. Want to pick up some takeaway in Kentish Town?”

“Mrs. Hudson has made scones for tea,” said Sherlock. “We can get takeaway later tonight.”

John shrugged and mounted. “Fine.”

Another glance at Sherlock showed him still looking pensive and preoccupied, making John wonder about the dog incident at Cambridge he had alluded to, and even more than that Sherlock’s fierce reaction to the girls’ situation. John believed him that in a twisted way Sherlock had meant well by confronting them with the truth, and that his action like so often had lacked tact and empathy. Had Sherlock suffered through his parents divorce? Had he been left in the dark about their decision for too long? Ah, but no, Sherlock wouldn’t have been left in the dark. Being who he was, he would have found out. Had he blamed himself for their break up as children often did? Sherlock rarely mentioned his father, but John had gathered that from one point during Sherlock’s childhood he had ceased to be around. Had he left? Died? He didn’t know.

And what about the dog incident at Cambridge? John was sure that more lay behind both episodes than Sherlock let on. One more thing he didn’t know about his best friend. Nothing new there. Still, Sherlock appeared to at least be in eating mode today and perhaps would be amenable to talking and shedding some light on his past over tea and scones later. John hoped so. It seemed to him that more and more secrets about his partner were piling up, and he wasn’t sure if a healthy relationship could be built on so shifty a foundation.

 

**- <o>-**

 

Sherlock didn’t speak much during their ride back to Baker Street. Traffic had increased on the roads, meaning they had to ride single file which didn’t encourage conversation. Moreover the sun had finally given up against the onslaught of dark clouds, and with the steadily freshening wind in their faces the two men hurried home. Back at 221B they quickly wiped down the Simplons and returned them to 221C.

“Do you want to shower first?” asked John as they ascended the stairs. Sherlock muttered something inaudible. He divested himself of gloves, sunglasses, helmet and his pirate scarf and flopped down on the sofa, withdrawing his mobile from the back pocket of his jacket. John took this as a sign that he was allowed to occupy the bathroom.

Despite the heating being on and Mrs. Hudson having been around to light a fire in the fireplace (as well as depositing scones on the coffee table), without the immediate exercise John was beginning to feel the chill in his sweaty clothes. He dashed up to his room for some comfortable gear to change into and hurried in the bathroom. Sherlock had less natural insulation than him, so it was vital for him to change quickly to avoid catching a cold.

Sherlock had exchanged mobile for laptop by the time John returned to the living room and was sitting hunched over the screen frowning deeply as he perused something there. John wondered whether he was once more looking for a case or if he had received some disquieting news.

“Bathroom is all yours,” he said, adding “Tea?”

“Please,” answered Sherlock, shutting the computer and setting it aside.

“Do me the favour and don’t just leave your sweaty cycling gear on the floor,” John reminded him as Sherlock walked past him in the kitchen. He only received a hum as an answer and sighed. Toddler indeed.

Mrs. Hudson, angel that she was, had brought clotted cream, too. John found some jam that looked edible and untampered with and carried tea, milk, cups and plates and cutlery into the living room before sinking down on the couch. As much as he had enjoyed the cycling, he could already feel some soreness coming on. Also, he was ravenously hungry. Nevertheless he decided to wait for Sherlock. He went and switched on the television, zapping through the channels listlessly before an announcement caused him to stop. Now that sounded interesting. He hadn’t watched that film in ages 

“What’s that?” enquired Sherlock when he returned, nodding towards the screen where the opening scenes of a movie were playing, showing a man sitting in a jeep illuminated by golden afternoon light, an instrumental version of “Stand by me” playing. Sherlock was dressed in dark trousers and his purple shirt under his blue dressing gown. It looked less formal and refined than his usual attire, but still smart. _Always prepared to leap up and dash after a case_ , thought John wryly. _Well, but at least most times he waits for me to get changed._

“ _Stand By Me_ ,” replied John, pouring some tea for Sherlock and handing him a cup and a plate with a scone.

Sherlock sat down next to him, frowning at the screen. “You want to watch this?”

“Yeah. Haven’t seen it in ages, but it’s a good film. Should interest you as well.”

“Few films interest me.”

“Trust me, you’ll like it.”

Sherlock looked doubtful, but he did fall silent and listened when the voice-over narrator started to speak: “ _I was twelve going on thirteen the first time I saw a dead human being. It happened in the summer of 1959. A long time ago, but only if you measure in terms of years.”_

“They’re going to look for a body?” asked Sherlock, and John smiled to himself, knowing that the other’s interest had been piqued. “But the protagonists are all children.”

“Yes, but it’s not just another kids’ movie. Watch it with me. It’s not like you have a lot to do today.”

Sherlock stared at the telly for a moment, obviously debating whether something as ordinary as watching a children’s film on a Sunday afternoon was really worth his time, but eventually he sighed, settled back into the sofa more comfortably and began applying jam and clotted cream to his scone. John knew he was going to stay.

What was more, throughout the film Sherlock was uncharacteristically quiet, and not just because his mouth was full of pastry or tea for a considerable amount of time. There was only a bare minimum of critical comments, no typing or reading on either phone or laptop for a distraction. Sherlock seemed truly captivated by the film. He burst out laughing when Gordie Lachance told the tale of Lardass and the blueberry pie contest that ended in the entire congregation puking all over each other, he gripped the union jack pillow in agitation when the boys were crossing the railroad viaduct and Vern was having his panic attack in the face of a train approaching, he scrunched up his face when the boys emerged from the forest pond with leeches all over them. John who had seen the film on several occasions and knew about its ending watched him sidelong when the four boys were on their way back to Castle Rock after having found and defended the body of Ray Brower, and the narrator was outlining how the characters fared after the summer ended and they headed off to different schools. John had always found the ending touching in its mixture of nostalgia and melancholia, relating to things every adolescent experienced, namely the passing of childhood and the slow decay of friendships over time.

Sherlock’s expression was calm and set, the vivid agitation he had displayed during the suspenseful or funny scenes replaced by a quiet sadness. John saw him swallow when the narrator told of Chris Chamber’s fate, and related that even though the two protagonists had remained friends throughout adolescence and early adulthood, even they were parted now because of Chris’ untimely death.

“ _I never had any friends later on like the ones I had when I was twelve,”_ a grown-up Gordie typed into a computer looking like it was from the stone-age, reminding John how much had changed since the mid-1980s despite them not seeming so long ago. “ _Jesus, does anyone?”_

Sherlock drew a deep breath and closed his eyes briefly. John looked away and busied himself with pouring some more tea. It seemed intrusive to watch him when he was so obviously moved and struggling to maintain his composure.

“Do you want more tea?” he asked gently when the tunes of the title song were playing during the credits.

Sherlock stirred as if he’d been drawn out of a deep trance. He swallowed again before visibly steeling himself and looking at John. “I’m fine,” he replied, and John wasn’t sure if he was only referring to not wanting more tea. His voice was rough. He sat staring into nothing for a moment.

“That was a good film,” he finally said quietly. “Have you read the novel, too?”

John shook his head. “No, but I always wanted to. Stephen King once said that he considers this film the best adaptation of any of his works. Don’t know whether the book is anything like the movie, though. I first watched it when it was shown at the cinema, back in ‘87 or ‘88. There was a girl in my class I was interested in at the time, Claire I think was her name. Yeah, right, Claire Munnings. She was totally hooked on River Phoenix and wanted to see the film because of him. So I took her. Proved a good decision, too, because by the end of it she was crying and needed someone to comfort her. Previously she hadn’t really let me touch her, but after the movie she was very eager to cry into my jumper and for me to hug her.”

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. “Nicely played, John Watson. Was this your plan for this afternoon as well? Have us watch a sad movie to make me cry on your shoulder?”

“Well, you’re not exactly dissolving into tears, are you? But if you feel you need a hug I’d be very happy to oblige.”

Sherlock stared at him, looking he was torn between indignation, humour or admitting that the film had indeed touched him. John switched the telly to standby once the credits had ended, not wanting a commercial or announcement to spoil the moment that seemed laced still with the nostalgia the film always evoked in him – not just because of the memory of Claire’s tears soaking his jumper. More than most other films, this one reminded John of his childhood, his friends, his family before it began to fall apart because of his father’s illness and Harry’s rebellious streak that had so troubled his parents. Sherlock sat very still, gazing at the black screen, his expression grave and thoughtful. John wondered what was going on in his mind.

“You all right?” he asked quietly.

Sherlock hummed softly. Breaking out of his stillness, he turned to John, fixing him with clear, questioning glance. “Is it true what they said about friendships?” he asked with genuine interest.

“What do you mean?” John shifted slightly on the sofa so as to see him better, angling his body towards him.

Sherlock shrugged, making an indistinct gesture towards the screen. “About them ending after a while, petering out. Did you have friends like that during childhood? People who you considered your best friends but who after a while ceased to be so?”

John watched him, pity welling up in him at the realisation that obviously Sherlock had never had this particular experience of a close childhood friendship dissolving over time. How desperately lonely he must have been throughout his life while at the same time trying to steel himself against said loneliness by becoming the cold, calculating machine John had accused him of being and which Sherlock really wasn’t, not on the inside. Beyond the thick walls and fortifications he had built round his heart, Sherlock _did_ feel, and he _did_ care, so strongly that John often marvelled at the immensity of the emotions contained in Sherlock’s fortress whenever he was allowed a glimpse through a crack.

“Yes,” admitted John. “I’ve no longer any contact to many of my childhood friends. Some moved away during our adolescence, some went to other schools, played football instead of rugby, started in a job instead of attending uni, got married, got divorced. Things like that. Normal things in everybody’s life, I guess. Sometimes things ended in a row about … don’t know, girls, other friends, politics. Sometimes you just saw each other less and less. Interests changed, you see, and you drifted apart, like Gordie says in the film.”

He shrugged. “Sometimes you promise to stay in contact, to write, phone, call. Sometimes you do, for a while, but you still see each other less and less, and at some point realise that you really don’t have that much to talk about because by then your lives and circumstances and the things important to you have diverged so much that what you once had in common, what you shared, doesn’t suffice anymore. You just lack a mutual basis which formerly school provided. Your childhood friend is truly gone, then, and it saddens you, but in most cases there’s nothing you can do about it. It happens to everybody. Sometimes you get back in touch after years, like me and Mike. You know, I felt extremely disconnected after Afghanistan. My army mates were still over there, those that were alive, but as for my folks here ... theirs was a different world. I felt I didn’t have a place here anymore. And then I met Mike. He accosted me in Russell Square, you know, and I admit that when I heard someone call my name my first reaction was to just walk on, ignore him. I really didn’t feel like chatting with an old acquaintance, exchanging trivialities, having my choice of joining the army criticised, enduring looks of pity because of my limp and injury and my less than ideal circumstances. All that horrible small talk, I really didn’t fancy any of that. I still don’t, come to think of it.”

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. “Imagine you had.”

“What?”

“Walked on. Ignored him. Not followed him to Bart’s”

John watched him, his grave expression, the sadness lingering in his eyes and in the tight line of his mouth. “We’ve never really thanked him, haven’t we? We might never have met without that chance encounter in Russell Square,” he stated solemnly, reaching for Sherlock’s hand because it seemed the right thing to do. Sherlock stiffened for an instant but then relaxed, his fingers curling around John’s and squeezing briefly. He bit his lip.

“You’d likely have read about me in the papers two days later.”

“Yeah, I guess. _Genius Sherlock Holmes catches murderous cabbie_?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No,” he said flatly. “There would have been another of the serial suicides. I chose the wrong pill because there wasn’t a right one. They were both poisoned. I’d have died that night.”

John swallowed, stroking the back of Sherlock’s hand with his thumb. “We really should invite Mike for dinner one of these days. You’d have died of poison and because of your bloody need to show off and prove you’re cleverer than the rest of humanity, and I of boredom, feeling no longer needed, or because of risking my life for some idiocy, just to feel alive. God, Sherlock, to imagine I’d never might have met you ...”

“Didn’t you wish for that after I faked my death?”

For a moment John was taken aback by the directness of the question, but then shook his head vehemently. “No. I hated the pain, but I also treasured every moment I’d been allowed to spend with you.”

Sherlock gave him a long, steady glance. He nodded slightly, squeezing John’s hand again. Then his expression darkened. “I tried to delete you and our time together,” he confessed forcefully, as if loathing himself for it.

“Yes, so you said,” John replied lightly. “But you didn’t manage to.”

Sherlock’s lips quirked in a smile. “No, I didn’t. The foundations of your wing were far too strong and too deep, the very core of my mind-palace. Do you think we will drift apart in time, like the boys in the film, like you and your childhood friends?”

“I hope not. One never knows, of course, but I can very well imagine us in thirty, forty years’ time, you with grey hair and glasses and gnarly fingers, and I with one of these posh wooden canes and a hearing aid, bickering like always.”

Sherlock gave him a long, unfathomable gaze. Then, to John’s surprise, he chuckled, breaking the strange gravitas their entire conversation had borne. “I think I’d like to keep bees then.”

John laughed as well. “As long as you do that outside it’d be fine with me. I’d love some home-made honey. I think I would like an orchard with apple trees to make juice and cider, and I could keep chickens and a dog, perhaps, too keep me fit.”

He grinned when Sherlock pulled a face. “The dog would have to stay outside, too,” he announced.

“Do you really dislike dogs in general or are you still annoyed about today’s encounter? It didn’t even bite you.”

Remembering the other instance Sherlock had been compromised by a canine, he enquired. “What happened back in Cambridge when you were assailed by the dog? You said the owner was keen to make amends. You got to know him, then?”

“Yes, I got to know him,” replied Sherlock, but there was a brusqueness to his voice that told John clearly that he didn’t want to speak about the incident. As if to underline his unwillingness to continue their little heart-to-heart, Sherlock withdrew his hand from John’s and stood.

“Döner kebab for dinner?” he asked.

John gazed up at him disbelievingly. “You ate three scones about an hour ago. How can you possibly be hungry again?”

“You always nag me to eat more, and when I do, you complain as well. Make up your mind.”

“I’m not complaining. I’m just pointing out facts. But yeah, döner is fine. Does this mean you’re going to fetch it? Want me to come along?”

Sherlock shook his head, heading to his room to fetch his jacket. “I won’t be long. There’s a kebab place down Marylebone High Street. Mehmed the owner owes me a favour.”

“’Course he does. Get some chips, too.”

John suspected that the true reason for Sherlock’s surprising volunteering to acquire dinner was that the movie and the subsequent talk had hit a little too close to home. Sherlock needed a private stroll through fresh air to sort through his feelings or memories or whatever else the day had evoked so far. John was more than willing to give him some alone time, feeling that he could do with some as well.

“If I’m not here when you return I’m down at Mrs. Hudson’s to thank her for the scones.”

Sherlock nodded while arraying himself in coat and scarf. John watched him leave before gathering their used plates and cutlery for a rinse.

 

**- <o>-**

 

Wind and rain seemed to have picked up during the early hours of the evening because upon his return Sherlock looked distinctly ruffled and wet.

“Why didn’t you get a cab back?” asked John from the sofa when the detective stepped into the living room shaking drops out of his hair and struggled out of his wet coat.

“I felt like walking. The food should be still warm, though. I walked fast.”

John made room for him to sit down, having already fetched plates and vinegar for the chips. “Was Mehmed the fellow we helped in that forgery case with the carpets?”

Sherlock shook his head, placing a plastic bag on the table and rummaging inside it to produce two large döners and a portion of chips. “No, that was Ömer, his brother.”

“Right.” Sherlock didn’t look like he was in a mood for more conversation. John decided to concentrate on the food for the time being. Despite the scones he felt surprisingly hungry again. They unwrapped their döners and started eating. Apparently Mehmed owed Sherlock big time, because he had stuffed the pita bread with so much meat, salad and cacik that it was almost impossible to take a bite from it without one smearing sauce over oneself and half the filling dripping or falling out. John noted that Sherlock, usually a dignified eater with good table manners was making a valiant attempt at defeating the döner. The result was cacik dripping from his chin and cheeks and even covering the tip of his nose. It looked so ridiculously adorable that John stopped eating and simply watched him wrestle with his meal.

Sherlock, of course, noticed. “What?” he demanded, mouth half full, döner gripped firmly in both hands.

“Nothing.”

“You’ve been watching me for over a minute now, John. Out with it.”

John grinned. “You look rather indecent like that, with half your face covered in sauce.”

“There isn’t a decent way of eating döner,” declared Sherlock, wiping at his nose with the back of his hand. “And you’re one to talk.”

“Why? I don’t look like I stuck my head into the kebab.”

“Perhaps not, but you’re doing the thing with your tongue again.”

“What thing with my tongue?” asked John, genuinely confused.

“That thing when you lick your lips frequently. It’s distracting. If something can be labelled indecent, it’s that.”

John smiled. “You mean I’m distracting you?”

“Obviously,” huffed Sherlock.

John laughed. “I don’t do it on purpose, you know.”

Sherlock snorted and dove into his döner again. John decided not to tease him any further, but stored away the information. Who knew when it might come in handy again to know how to distract Sherlock?

 

**- <o>-**

 

They didn’t manage to eat all the chips. The kebabs had been too large. John cleared away the remains of their meal and made two mugs of tea. When he returned to the living room, he expected Sherlock to have snatched up something to occupy him, either his phone, computer or violin. But Sherlock more lay than sat on the couch with his head resting back on the cushions and his hands folded on his belly. His eyes were closed and for a moment John thought he had fallen asleep. He himself was feeling distinctly full and a little drowsy, and he’d slept more than Sherlock the previous night. But when he approached Sherlock’s eyes slid open.

“Wanna watch another film?” asked John as he sat down next to him again.

Sherlock’s head twitched in what could have been either a nod or a shake of head. He didn’t look particularly bored or moody, meaning there was no need for imminent distraction or entertainment. John reckoned he was simply tired and decided to leave him. Picking up one of the newspapers from the floor next to the sofa and the pen Sherlock had left on the table, he leaved through the paper to find an unsolved sudoku.

Next to him, Sherlock drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. It sounded almost like a sigh. John gazed at him. He had narrowed his lips again, looking lost in thought. Once again John wished to be allowed a glimpse into Sherlock’s mind. Surprisingly, this time he was. His eyes still focusing on something beyond the ceiling, Sherlock suddenly spoke in a low voice,

“His name was Victor Trevor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again there's art: "[Döner Kebab](http://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/65912310632/doner-kebab-illustration-for-chapter-5-of-over)"


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains mentions of past drug use and injury. Well, and I guess it's rather obvious in whose image Victor was moulded ;).

Gazing at him steadily, John leaned back against the cushions, mirroring Sherlock’s position while cradling his mug of tea. Apparently he was in for a story about Sherlock’s past, an enormous privilege John very much knew to appreciate. Sherlock seldom spoke about his childhood or his time at Harrow or Cambridge, and when he did John was never entirely sure if he was hearing a full, true account or a heavily edited and abridged version. He studied Sherlock’s calm yet focused expression, looking for signs of scheming or distress, but there were none. His friend was in storytelling mood, and even though John suspected that there wasn’t going to be a happy ending to this tale, he knew Sherlock could spin a yarn when he wanted to. _Let’s hear it then_ , he thought with grim excitement.

“You mean the owner of the dog that assaulted you?” he asked, to rouse Sherlock into actually talking.

“Obviously.” Sherlock steepled his hands, their fingertips resting against his chin. He was still gazing at the ceiling. John imagined him wandering those rooms and passages of his mind palace where his sojourn at Cambridge was stored, many heavily barricaded or cunningly locked, no doubt.

“He was some years older than I, two, I think,” Sherlock continued in a low, even voice. “Read English, Philosophy and Law at my college.”

“Whoa, that’s a lot of subjects,” interrupted John. “How did he manage that? Another genius like you?”

Sherlock made a non-committal move with his head. “He was intelligent, above average, too, had many interests and a broad general knowledge. However, he also sported a certain lack of focus and decisiveness, hence the large number of subjects. He didn’t finish assignments in all of them, mostly hung out in lectures that interested him or because they were frequented by girls he pursued at the time.”

“Sounds a lot like one of those guys you find at any university,” mused John. “You know, of considerable means, bright and charming, rather unconcerned about the future because they’d never had to worry about it in the first place, good at sports, incredibly popular, always catching the best birds. That type.”

Sherlock frowned in concentration as if trying to recall whether his acquaintance had really been like that. At length he gave a jerk of head. “Yes, that sums up Victor pretty accurately. His family was rich, old landed gentry with a large estate bordering on the Norfolk Broads. His father was a human rights lawyer with many connections abroad, and there was considerable wealth in the family from his mother’s side, though it’s fair to say that he never boasted with it. It was simply a fact, and yes, it of course made him quite unconcerned about money, never having had to worry about student loans and funds. It also made him very generous, a fact several of his fellow students tried to abuse, sucking up to him whether it be for gifts or popularity, or both. ‘Good at sports’ fits, too. He was part of our college’s rowing team, played tennis if I remember correctly, and was a passable fencer.”

John nodded to himself, trying to quell a stab of jealousy, irrational he knew though it was. Sherlock didn’t refer to this person with the particular kind of fondness that indicated a friend- or even relationship. So far he had simply presented facts, and done so in a matter-of-fact tone that betrayed little emotional involvement. Then again Sherlock was a consummate actor. He was also referring to Victor in past tense. John wondered what had become of him, whether he was still alive even.

“What college did you attend?” he asked. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard it mention before.”

“Sidney Sussex, both for under- and postgraduate studies, with a one year gap of travelling Europe and spending four months at a lab in Heidelberg.”

“What did you read?”

“Natural Sciences, obviously, specialising in chemistry. But I took some other subjects, too: Law, History of Art and Psychology and Behavioural Sciences.”

John watched him thoughtfully, trying to imagine Sherlock during his Cambridge days: younger, less refined in taste and expression, bright and eager. And lonely. John recalled from his own university days that people like Sherlock rarely became popular, unless they acted like Victor Trevor apparently had and arrived with a huge dollop of self-confidence born out of privilege. Sherlock, too, came from a well-to-do family, but he never boasted with his funds, Spencer Hart suits and Belstaff coat aside, and apart from providing him with a top education both at school and later – which, in fact, he seemed to have appreciated –, his parents hadn’t endowed him with any of the easy charm the confidently rich and popular so often sported. Moreover, the likelihood of some of Sherlock’s classmates from Harrow having attended the same college was high, thus carrying his reputation as a loner and worse, a freak to the new place and robbing him of any chance to begin with a clean slate.

John swallowed, but checked himself when he saw Sherlock watching him keenly, his expression grave but set. “Remember what I told you about pitying me, John,” he said, giving John once more the uncanny feeling that he’d just read his thoughts.

“I enjoyed university far more than school. Most of the time I was left in peace, and when interaction with my peers became unavoidable during lectures, I mostly managed with minimal fallout for both sides. I knew they talked about me behind my back, called me names – mostly highly uninventive ones –, but still grovelled whenever they needed help with coursework, Sebastian Wilkes being a prime example. But there was little active mobbing or bullying, mostly shunning, which was perfectly fine with me as I shunned them as well. Morons, the lot of them. As if I had any interest in their extra-curricular activities, their partying, the drinking, the – how did you call them? Birds?”

John nodded, angered by the detached way Sherlock described his past. These things always left scars, even if he tried to convince John that they hadn’t touched him. The doctor understood that despite Sherlock’s denial, they _had_ gotten to him, the taunts, the name-calling, the constant rejection. John still recalled Sherlock’s utterly surprised, almost disbelieving expression when he had told him his deduction had been amazing during their taxi ride to Lauriston Gardens on their first evening together. It had seemed that he’d been the first person in a long time ( _or perhaps_ , he thought with a deep stab in his chest area, _ever_ ) who’d praised Sherlock like that, who’d not told him to piss off after being brilliant.

“What happened?” John asked. “With Victor, I mean. After the dog attack.”

Sherlock gave him a sharp glance. “We weren’t together,” he snapped. “If that’s what you’re implying.”

“I’m not implying anything,” John defended himself. “But I do get the impression that you liked him, and that he treated you different than the other idiots at uni who didn’t recognise what a brilliant guy you are. So what happened? Did he show up with a gift basket while you were recovering from the bite? Or did he bring you the dog itself so you could experiment on it?”

Despite himself, it seemed, Sherlock had to smile. “Close enough,” he replied. “The dog bite itself was only marginal, but the dratted creature – an Irish setter, so not a small breed – had caused me to crash with my bicycle, bruising several ribs and injuring my collar bone. I was lucky it wasn’t fractured, but I couldn’t use my left arm and shoulder properly for a while. And you were right about Victor seeking me out, quite tenaciously, too. After he’d helped me up I only snarled at him to leave me in peace and get the dratted creature out of my sight and stalked (or hobbled) off. But he insisted on accompanying me to my lodgings, to pay for the damage on the bike and myself. I reacted by deducing him quite mercilessly, but surprisingly he took it in stride and couldn’t be shaken off. So I made him carry my bag. I remember he was chatting all the time, asking me things about lectures we shared, babbling about uni trivia which really, absolutely didn’t interest me.”

John shrugged, shaking his head. “Sherlock, the poor bloke likely just had a bad conscience and was trying to be kind and make amends.”

Sherlock scowled. “So I gathered. But this precisely made his actions highly suspicious, you see?”

“Why? Because people weren’t allowed to show you kindness?”

Sherlock’s expression quieted. “Oh, they were allowed,” he said softly. John gazed away from the look in his eyes. _They just didn’t, most of the time_ , he finished Sherlock’s sentence in his mind.

“So what happened then?” he asked aloud.

Sherlock drew a breath and shrugged, his hands still in ‘thinking position’. “I made it clear to him I didn’t want any money or further dealings with him. I didn’t want the dog killed, either. It wasn’t the critter’s fault, but its owner’s. I told him to use his money on a good sturdy leash and banged the door of my room into his face.

“I thought that’d been the end of it, but I was mistaken. Victor took to greeting me, even talking to me when we ran into each other. It seemed impossible to get rid of him, so after a while I just suffered him to tag along. He wasn’t entirely boring company, either, at least not when he was alone and not in the company of his rowing mates or some of the other idiots he hung out with. He was a talented prankster, had a profound knowledge of the more … obscure passages of several colleges, and knew interesting and hard to get to places around town.”

“Sounds like you became friends,” John observed, again quenching a quiver of jealousy.

Sherlock shrugged again. “Maybe. It was … easy to be around him. He didn’t seem to judge me or try to alter me. Often we’d just spend time at the library reading, or sit outside the Café Nero on Market Street to watch (and in my case deduce) the passers by, or visit Fitzbillies on Trumpington Street for tea (although I suspect he was more interested in the girls from Pembroke College than the homemade cakes). I didn’t accompany him to parties or sporting events, despite him asking. But those things didn’t interest me, and moreover I didn’t want to invite more spite from his ‘mates’ who’d already begun to ridicule him for keeping company with the ‘freak’ even after my shoulder and leg had healed and he was under no obligation any longer to be around me to carry my bags. Perhaps to shut them up – I guess you can imagine what inventive names they spouted forth whenever they saw me – he pursued this girl whose name I've deleted. She was bright, good public speaker and really knew how to keep his obnoxious friends in check when they offered some lewd comments. They went out for a while during which time I rarely saw him.”

John watched him sidelong. “You were jealous?” he asked slyly.

Sherlock snorted derisively. “Of course not. I told you before, we weren’t a couple.”

John couldn’t help grin at the statement. “Yeah, same way we weren’t a couple. Before, I mean.”

“Well, you were the one to always deny it.”

“Yes, true. Because, as you’re so fond of pointing out, I can be an idiot at times. I’m not denying it any longer, though, which I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

He ran a hand through his hair, finally leaning forward to set his empty mug onto the table. Below the window, a loud bang sounded rattling the panes, followed by laughter. Apparently some kids were practising for Guy Fawkes in two days. John had jumped slightly, cursing under his breath. He hated firecrackers, particularly when they went off like this, without him being prepared. 

Aware of Sherlock’s alert, slightly concerned gaze, he jerked his head, continuing to talk, “Since I’m not a complete moron all of the time, I can tell that Victor’s involvement with this girl rankled you, most likely because you’d gotten used to his exclusive companionship and suddenly he wasn’t around any longer.”

“There was nothing ‘exclusive’ about his companionship,” Sherlock corrected him curtly. “I never experienced him without a girlfriend of sorts. But you are right, I’d grown … used to him.”

“Used to, or fond of?” needled John, which earned him a fierce glance from Sherlock.

“What are you implying, John?”

“Only that you liked him, more perhaps than you felt comfortable admitting to yourself, suspecting perhaps that he didn’t quite share your feelings.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed dangerously, but the sharp retort never came. Instead he bit his lip, gazing ahead towards the fireplace. At length he heaved a sigh.

“That exactly was the problem,” he admitted quietly, “and part of the reason our … friendship terminated the way it did, if you want to call it a friendship.”

Leaning back again, John waited for him to continue of his own accord, despite the many questions whirling in his mind.

“Victor and the girl split up a few months after getting together. It was plain to see that the break-up bothered him far more than the previous terminations of his relationships. It also veiled a couple of other worries he had at the time, which was unfortunate. Had I known of these matters, had I not just seen him wallowing in misery because she’d left him, as he put it, for a Harvard scholarship, things might have developed differently. But as they were he returned to spending time with me, even if he was somewhat more subdued. And then there was the party.

“It was one of the very few of these mindless, boring social gatherings he managed to talk me into attending. The occasion was the rowers’ victory over Peterhouse and Trinity, which apparently warranted a night of excessive consumption of alcohol and other substances, and of people rubbing against other people in what they called dancing, as a precursor to more intimate rubbing afterwards. A completely, utterly, mind-numbingly tedious event for someone who didn’t drink nor take any of the other stuff, and who wasn’t interested in the exchange of bodily fluids with virtual strangers.”

“You didn’t? The substances, I mean?”

Sherlock frowned. “Contrary to what the _Daily Mail_ and whichever other paper published the dratted article about my past wanted to make you believe, I didn’t take any drugs during my time at uni. I hardly smoked, even. And later the only two substances of my choice were nicotine and cocaine, with the use of the latter infrequent and very much under control.”

“Why did you spend some time in rehab, then? Or did the _Fail_ make that up, too?”

“No,” replied Sherlock sternly. “It’s true. I checked myself in because of the Work.” He turned his head to give John a long, steady, almost imploring gaze. “I was never an addict, John.”

“Not that I don’t believe you, but that’s pretty much what many addicts claim. Trust me, I’ve been around my sister long enough to know.”

Sherlock’s features tightened and he gazed ahead to the skull. “My use of cocaine was perfectly controlled. I only injected it during periods of prolonged and unbearable boredom. By that time I was already assisting the Met on cases. Unfortunately, on one occasion Lestrade found discriminating evidence at my flat. He can be quite observant, you see, if he wants to be. I am rather sure he was looking for it after a hint from my brother. Anyway, he blackmailed me: absolute, official proof of being clean or no more cases. Well, I couldn’t bring it over myself to leave the Yarders on their own, could I? Crime in London would have had a field day. So I endured a stint in rehab, behaving myself despite the crushing boredom, and voilá, farewell cocaine.”

John nodded to himself. This wasn’t the story the tabloids had printed, but if one took into account Sherlock’s very own brand of reasoning, it made far more sense.

“Did you ever relapse?” asked John carefully, only too aware of the many battles they’d fought over smoking and the proper dosage of nicotine patches before Sherlock had left.

Sherlock avoided his eyes. “Relapse indicates addiction, John,” he chided mildly. “I did use cocaine once more, but not for the sake of distraction. It was for a case.” He turned his eyes to John, his expression keen and proud. “I won’t do so again. There are other ways of testing a drug’s purity. You don’t have to worry about me.”

John drew a deep breath, running a hand through his hair and then patting the back of Sherlock’s right hand briefly. “I worry about you all the time. But never mind, it’s fine. Don’t end your story here. What happened at that party?”

Sherlock settled back to stare at the ceiling again. “It took place at the end of Easter Term in June at the Sidney Sussex Boat Club’s clubhouse that was shared with Corpus Christi, Girton, and Wolfson boat clubs, meaning lots of people from other colleges were present. The place was packed, the music obnoxiously loud, most people already mostly drunk when we arrived. After watching Victor and his rowing mates get – I think ‘wasted’ is the expression – I fled outside into the garden. There was a fairly quiet spot sheltered by trees. I’d brought a book and had confiscated half a bottle of a fairly decent wine. I don’t remember why I didn’t just return to the college and my room, but the evening was fair and I rather enjoyed watching the cyclists and pedestrians on the other side of the Cam from my hideout, and the fireflies fluttering between the trees and the reeds and grasses on the river’s borders. It was the first time I had seen fireflies in the city, and their presence struck me as fairly remarkable.

“Then of a sudden Victor showed up. I don’t know how he managed to find me, particularly in the state he was in. He wasn’t completely drunk, but obviously had worked hard to eliminate any remainder of pining for his ex with copious amounts of beer and that horrible red stuff that was the fad at parties at the time.”

“Aftershock?” put in John, cringing slightly as he’d always loathed it. Sherlock nodded, looking rather repulsed himself.

“Well, whatever he’d imbibed, it seemed to have worked,” he took up his account. “He was cheerful once more, even giggly, but sobered up a little as he flopped down next to me.”

“For a while we just sat there in the grass, him coaxing me into deducing the people cycling or walking to and fro, like I did at our usual haunts in town or during lectures. It was almost dark by then, so there was actually very little detail I could still see. Then he noticed the fireflies, and I lectured him about their chemical properties.”

John snorted softly. “How romantic,” he commented dryly, but sobered up at Sherlock’s scowl.

“I would ask you to cease any further comments if you want me to continue,” he returned haughtily.

“Sorry. Won’t happen again.”

Sherlock watched him imperiously for a moment before giving a curt nod.

“Despite Victor’s alcohol-induced cheeriness there appeared to remain some underlying stress or even sadness. More than once I caught him stealing glances at me, quickly looking away again when I caught him staring. I recalled that there had been instances during which he’d acted similarly. I’d never put much store to them, although at times they had dealt me a slight stab in the stomach area. That evening I felt the same, but I put it down to the wine since I rarely drank alcohol and wasn’t as immune to its effects as many of my peers.”

John couldn’t help snort out a laugh.

“What?” Sherlock’s voice was as sharp as his gaze when his head whipped round to John. John shook his head, grinning. “God, this is adorable.”

“John,” Sherlock warned, looking both put out and embarrassed.

“Guess the poor bloke fancied you, and you him in that weird way of yours, and he didn’t dare make a move, and you in your innocence and general oblivion to matters of the heart (or body) thought it was the wine giving you butterflies. That’s just precious.”

Sherlock sniffed indignantly. “It wasn’t like that,” he declared. “I didn’t ‘fancy’ him, as you put it. You make it sound like he was some dainty food. I don’t ‘fancy’ you, either.”

“Oh,” muttered John, “I seem to have gotten a different impression lately.”

“For God’s sake, if you must know, what I feel for you has long exceeded the realm of mere ‘fancy’. You are … structurally important.”

Watching him flounder and scoff, John’s face moved into a gentle smile. _Structurally important_. If that wasn’t a declaration of love in Sherlock’s convoluted vocabulary, John didn’t know what was. “So are you, Sherlock,” he told him with grave sincerity. “Sorry for teasing you.”

Sherlock dropped his gaze and began fiddling with one of the buttons of his cuff. “It’s okay. You were right to some extend, I reckon. I did have … feelings for him, but I didn’t know how to classify them, much less how to act on them. More difficult still was trying to decipher the conflicting signals he sent, particularly for someone as inexperienced as I. I enjoyed having him around in homeopathic doses, while at the same resenting when he spent too much time with the girlfriend du jour. He had treated me … kindly, but without the condescension and pity some of the other students who had tried to befriend me had shown. But that evening the equilibrium we had established was blown to bits. Things were never the same afterwards.”

“Did you have a row?”

Sherlock shook his head, his face stern and tinged with a trace of sadness, or regret. “No, we had a dance.”

John bit back the wry comment that lay on his tongue, knowing that it would have been inappropriate. Sherlock’s gaze had unfocused again. John tried to imagine what he was seeing before his inner eye, realising he had no idea what Victor had looked like. He only had a vague idea what Sherlock might have looked like ten, fifteen years ago. He reckoned there were places on the internet to find out.

“There’d been music playing in the boathouse for some time, but it had mostly been the dull background throb of the basses. At one point Victor moved closer to me. I gave him the wine bottle which he emptied and then leaned against me. I thought he’d was falling asleep, and for a moment worried that if he was going to be sick, he’d puke all over me, but instead he began to talk softly into my ear. At first he whined about his ex, then murmured something about his family, that he might not be able to stay at uni. I didn’t like that last bit, I recall. I didn’t say much, and he seemed content to just talk. When it became clear that he wasn’t going to be sick any time soon, I also began to appreciate his closeness despite the smell of beer, and the way his hair tickled my cheek and throat. I might have put my arm round his shoulders at some point. 

“Suddenly he raised his head and looked at me, and smiled very strangely. Then he disentangled himself from my side, struggled to his feet and extended a hand to me. I noticed that the music had changed to something slower and actually music-like, and that Victor intended to dance. Maybe it was the wine, but I felt I should join him, so I did, and he grabbed me and slung his arms round me and dropped his head on my shoulder again, all the while swaying to the music. It was … good. I didn’t really know where to put my hands, but eventually rested them in the small of his back while he clung to me. I remember feeling tingly all over, and somewhat weightless, and concluded I was slightly tipsy myself.”

Sherlock’s face which had taken on a soft, even faintly wistful look while he was lost in the past turned grave and stern again. “We both sobered up very rapidly, though, when suddenly three of his rowing mates appeared who’d been looking for him. They spotted us and immediately began making lewd comments. Victor let go of me as it I’d burned him, wouldn’t look at me but stormed past his friends towards the boathouse. I was left with them. They were considerably inebriated, and I knew that if I made a wrong move or uttered an incriminating comment, they’d give me trouble for it as they’d been spoiling for a fight for some time, jealous, perhaps, of the time Victor had spent with me. Confused about what had just happened with Victor, I couldn’t think clearly, but I did reason that I might be better off far away from them, so I ran for it, followed by the uninventive and repetitive epithets they bestowed on me. I managed to get to my room unchallenged, but not untroubled.”

John let out a sympathetic sigh. “What did Victor do? Did you talk about what happened? Did he acknowledge his feelings for you?”

Sherlock scoffed, suddenly angry. “Of course not. Over the following days I didn’t see him at all, despite knowing that he hadn’t left for Norfolk but was indeed at the college. I tried to contact him, but only received a brief and formal reply that he was busy revising for an exam. As if he’d ever cared about those before.”

“He was avoiding you? How mature.”

“Yes, that’s what I thought as well. But I felt like an idiot running after him, so I desisted. We barely saw each other in the following weeks, and even during the lectures we shared he wouldn’t sit next to me any longer but kept to his rowing mates, and not long after to another girl, likely to prove to the world and himself that he wasn’t gay, and that having been spotted in the arms of the ‘freak’ had been a singular, alcohol-induced accident.”

He narrowed his lips, indicating to John that the memory of past hurt and rejection still stung. “That’s not the end of the story, though, is it?” enquired John. Sherlock drew a breath and shook his head.

“No, it isn’t. I tried to delete him, and avoided him on campus. He spent his weekends on his parent’s estate which increasing frequency, and the girlfriend was replaced by another after a relatively short while. But then at the end of Michaelmas Term he suddenly showed up at my quarters with an invitation to visit him in Norfolk. I was highly suspicious, but he won me over by asking me for help in a complicated matter involving his father which would challenge my deductive skills.”

“He directly appealed to your ego, then,” stated John slyly.

Sherlock sighed. “Yes. And I admit I was flattered. Flattered, charmed, relieved in my idiotic naivety that he cared about me after all. I believed that if nothing else, the weekend away from uni, his girlfriend and most importantly his obnoxious ‘friends’ would finally provide an opportunity to address some of the issues between us. Not that I was looking forward to that, but I felt it was necessary. I _was_ , however, looking forward to the case, my very first in my capacity as a consultant.

“Unfortunately, the very case turned out to deepen the rift between us beyond reconciliation. I dug a little too deeply, divulged too much about what I’d found out, and thus ruined his father. Well, actually he’d ruined himself, but I brought it to light. His father’s health had been failing, and the publication of his past misdemeanours resulted in a severe worsening of his condition. He died the following year, or so I was informed.”

“Let me guess,” John fell in grimly, “Victor blamed you.”

Sherlock gave a curt nod. “Yes. Rightly so, perhaps. During the time we spent together at the estate it became very clear that Victor regretted what had happened at the river. He blamed it on the alcohol, repeating constantly that even though he liked me, he certainly wasn’t gay and that I shouldn’t read too much into the matter. I was hurt, because I had interpreted things differently. After all, it had been him who’d initiated what had happened, not I, and he hadn’t been so inebriated that night to not know what he’d been doing. More likely the alcohol had caused him to act according to how he felt, not what his hetero-normative upbringing dictated. I told him that, which didn’t go down well. And when I revealed what I had found out in his father’s case, it must have seemed to him that I was trying to destroy his family as a form of revenge. Maybe he was even right. Maybe I _was_ trying to pay him back. Or perhaps I was attempting to prove how clever I was by not holding back what I’d found out. I wanted to show off, and I did, regardless of the consequences.”

Of a sudden, Sherlock looked immeasurably sad, almost revolted at himself. “I should have known better, of course,” he said quietly. “It’s not like I hadn’t been in virtually the exact situation before, and had messed up then, too. Isn’t there this saying that those unable to learn from history are doomed to repeat it? Well, that’s what happened. Victor didn’t rage at me or anything, he just told me very quietly to leave. I did, and that was the last time I saw him. He didn’t return to university the following term. I later learned he had moved to India, is now owner of an organic tea company and married to an Indian eco-activist.”

Silence fell but for the soft patter of rain on the windows. John was torn between anger at a man he’d never met as well as a – completely irrational – feeling of jealousy. There was also pity for Sherlock and the strong desire to protect him from further hurt, as well as curiosity about this Victor Trevor person who to this day seem to possess a room in Sherlock’s mind palace and hadn’t been deleted. But the thought that John actually voiced was a different one altogether.

“What did he look like?”

Sherlock turned his head to gaze at him, looking slightly irritated. He thought for a moment then shrugged. “I don’t remember the details. Handsome, I guess, by normal standards. I’m sure you’ll find images if you look online.”

Stretching, he rose and stalked over to the fireplace to feed the dying embers, before reaching for his violin. John drew a deep breath, running a hand through his hair. Apparently story time was at an end. He had a number of questions still, but Sherlock had turned away from him and was tuning his instrument, clearly indicating that he didn’t want to talk about his past any longer. 

John decided to leave him in peace. It was getting late, after all, and he had an early shift the next day. Picking up his empty mug – Sherlock’s was still full, the tea cold –, he carried it into the kitchen. The first tunes, slow and sad, accompanied him to the bathroom where he readied himself for bed. Afterwards he returned to the living room to retrieve his mobile from the desk. For a moment he watched Sherlock as he stood swaying to his music. Judging from his absent mood and grave expression, he was going to play for a while yet.

“Thank you for sharing this story,” John told him, hoping he was in a state to listen.

Sherlock nodded once but didn’t turn. John resisted the urge to run his hand along his shoulder, knowing the touch would be considered distracting and thus unwelcome. “Good night, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nodded again and closed his eyes. John left.

 

-<o>-

 

Upstairs he changed into his nightclothes and quickly slid under the covers as the air in the room was cold. Switching on his mobile, he hesitated for a moment before curiosity got the better of him. He opened a browser and typed in Victor’s name.

The first entry that came up in the search was the website of Victor’s tea company, a rather high end undertaking the products of which were likely to end up rather at Fortnum & Mason than the local Tesco or even Waitrose. Apparently Victor had landed on his feet after whatever scandal had disrupted his family and caused him to leave university without a degree.

John clicked through the site to the ‘about’ section where he found a photograph of a smiling couple amidst a group of tea pickers, with the rolling green hills of a tea plantation in the background. The man he was looking for was handsome indeed in a boyish, jovial sort of way. He was tall and rather slender for someone who’d been rowing at college, with curly, dark-blond hair that was already receding slightly from his forehead. Despite that, he looked younger than late thirties, but John reckoned that he was the kind of type that would retain their youthful looks up into their fifties or sixties. He could very well imagine how Victor would have been popular at uni, both with his rowing mates and the ladies. Even in the picture he exuded the kind of easy charm and camaraderie that people felt drawn to. He looked a bit public school, too, his clothes casual and appropriate for the warm, humid clime, but well-tailored and fashioned of expensive fabrics nonetheless. He had his arm round a rather fierce and intense looking brown-skinned woman with a buzz-cut, who, unlike the tea pickers, wasn’t wearing a sari but a brightly coloured tunic and wide trousers. Her fingernails were glowing turquoise. She reminded John of Nikhita Vathijanathar, the Met’s recently acquired forensic expert who he’d liked instantly for her non-nonsense attitude, her professionalism and most of all her wild and unashamed fangirling over both Star Trek and football.

John gazed at the picture for a while. The couple looked at ease with each other, happy. During Sherlock’s narration he had been torn between loathing Victor for obviously hurting Sherlock, and commiserating with him. After all, John of all people knew how difficult and often infuriating a person Sherlock could be, and how complicated it was to gauge one’s own feelings in relation to him. No wonder Victor had been confused in regards to Sherlock Holmes. Likely Sherlock’s own signals had been irritating and far from clear. John thought he could imagine very well how things had been, having gone through a similar experience. This did not, of course, excuse the ham-fisted and unfair way Victor had brushed off his own advances which John was sure had played a major part in the construction of Sherlock’s cold, arrogant, seemingly unfeeling attitude. He couldn’t be sure, but it had seemed like this had been the first time for Sherlock to allow himself to feel attracted to someone else in the hope that the attraction was mutual, had opened up and accepted physical closeness even if it was something as chaste as a cuddle and a dance, and then bam, see things blow up in his face. Knowing him, John could well imagine that he had tried to work extra hard on the case of Victor’s father, not just to show off, but to remind Victor of his brilliance, to win him back. And that, too, had ended badly. No wonder Sherlock hadn’t tried his hand at relationships after that but come to see them with disdain.

Until John himself had come along, that was. He felt warmth spread through him, laced with guilt, however. Sherlock had admitted that he’d felt attracted to John almost right from the start of their acquaintance. He’d never acted on it, however, unless one counted the covert glances, the constant revolving around John, the not so subtle jealousy whenever John had introduced another girlfriend, the attempts at sabotaging John’s love-life. And John hadn’t realised the true reason because he had been battling his own growing attraction to the impossible man, his own hetero-normative prejudice, the fact that he had never felt more alive than when around Sherlock Holmes. God, poor Sherlock. It must have seemed to him like Victor Trevor all over again: the insistence on John not being gay, them not being a couple, the frequent girlfriends, the constant, growing yet never expressed devotion to the other.

No, John decided, he couldn’t really blame Victor for how he had reacted to Sherlock, or, rather, he _could_ , but then he had to blame himself for unwittingly repeating the other’s mistakes. It had taken Sherlock’s jump off a roof and nine months of hell for both of them to finally realise what was going on and take steps towards admitting it to each other.

John sighed, switching off the mobile and plugging it in to charge. Well, even though things were still complicated between them with a realistic chance for future hurt, at least John knew he’d be trying hard to avoid it. Downstairs, the violin could still be heard in an improvised version of _Jerusalem_. Clearly Sherlock was thinking of his Cambridge days. Sentiment. Despite his claims to the opposite, Sherlock’s store of it seemed profound, like a deep well with a tight lid that only occasionally was lifted to allow waters be brought to the surface.

John shifted onto his side, scrunching up his face when another bang outside indicated a gang of youngsters blowing up some untimely fireworks. He looked forward to Bonfire Night being over and all the bloody crackers spent. Settling deeper into his pillow, he closed his eyes.

 

**- <o>-**

 

John jolted awake, disoriented and deeply troubled, his chest heaving in rasping breaths that to his ears almost sounded like sobs. _Nightmare_ , flashed through his mind as he propped himself up against the headboard and ran a hand through his sweaty hair. A bad one, too, such as hadn’t visited him for a while. Not since Sherlock’s return, he realised. He could barely recall what precisely he had dreamed about. Only some weird, disconnected images remained, together with a deep feeling of unease, even dread.

He’d been at school and there had been people he’d met much later in life but in the curious way logic in dreams works they hadn’t felt out of place. Sherlock had been there, too, looking unlike himself but John had instinctively known it had been him, the brilliant but awkward loner like a character in one of those 1980s high-school movies. They had argued, what about he couldn’t recall. Some scenes were missing from the middle of his dream, but it had ended with them riding bicycles and Sherlock falling and John standing over him as he lay on the pavement in a puddle of blood from his own split skull, his dark hair matted with crimson.

John knew he’d never forget the image that had burned itself into his mind that dreadful day at Bart’s, despite being aware that it had all been a trick. Yes, the blood on the pavement had been Sherlock’s, but it had been previously given, and his friend’s skull had been intact. John swallowed hard, his breathing and racing heartbeat only gradually calming to a normal rhythm. His throat felt raw and scratchy, and with a jolt of humiliation he wondered whether he had cried out in his dream.

The answer presented itself a moment later when a faint knock at the door made him jump so badly that he bumped his shoulder blades against the headboard and hissed with the pain. For an instant he debated whether to ask Sherlock not to enter. He didn’t particularly want his friend to see him in this troubled state. On the other hand he felt he needed to see Sherlock very badly, just to make sure he was here and alive and his head was whole, his hair free of spilled blood. Moreover, John reasoned when reasoning became an option again in his shaken state, most likely Sherlock had deduced his nightmare already. Had he really come to offer comfort? That would be extremely thoughtful and emphatic. After all, this was Sherlock who, even if he cared deeply for John, certainly wasn’t one to soothe his friend after a nightmare. Moreover, after the revelation about Victor Trevor he had looked more troubled and pensive than ever. Had he come to seek John’s proximity instead and had waited for John to wake on his own? John sighed. He was only going to learn the real reason if he beckoned him in.

Drawing a deep breath and trying to arrange his rumbled bed sheets and himself into a less dishevelled state, “Come in,” he said, his voice raspy and rough. He decided against switching on the light, leaving the room in semi-darkness with the only illumination coming from the erratic streetlamp outside where it filtered through the blind.

Slowly, the door opened and Sherlock stepped in. He had changed into his pyjamas and dressing gown, but the state of his hair indicated he hadn’t been sleeping. In his right hand he was carrying a glass of water, the left he had hidden in the pocket of the robe as if unsure what to do with it. He looked as embarrassed as John felt.

He did not meet John’s gaze as he shuffled closer and held out the glass. “Your throat must be dry from all the screaming.”

Gingerly, John took the glass and sipped from it. “Thanks,” he muttered, resting his eyes on it. “Sorry if I woke you.”

“I wasn’t sleeping,” replied Sherlock, stepping to the window and gazing between the panels of the blind. The streetlamp was flickering. John expected it to die again soon.

The low hum of a car sounded down on the street, followed by a series of loud bangs that made both men jump, John so badly that he spilled water all over his chest.

“Damn it,” he cursed. “Why can’t the wankers wait ‘til Tuesday to shoot their damn fireworks? They’ve been at it all evening already. And then they complain about having no money. Next time they should simply take some twenty pound notes and set them on fire. Wouldn’t make that fucking noise, at least.”

Sherlock lifted his shoulders in a shrug before turning to John. “Did you dream of Afghanistan?” he asked with that uncanny directness of his John both appreciated and feared. He drew a deep breath, dabbing at his wet t-shirt with a tissue from his bedside table.

“Didn’t you hear me?”

“I did. I was just wondering why the noise startled you so much just now. You called my name, and you sounded … distressed. Desperate.”

He stuffed both his hands into the pockets, half turning to the window again and resolutely not meeting John’s gaze, a move which John appreciated tremendously. “It reminded me of that day at Bart’s when you called out to me from below.” He bit his lip, clearly battling with some guilt. “I thought I’d better check if you were all right, although my prime reason for coming up here was another.”

John swallowed. It would be easy to deny that he wasn’t all right, pretend that the dream had indeed been about the war, his subconscious stimulated by the fireworks which he loathed if they sounded when he wasn’t prepared, although he quite enjoyed the proper fireworks on New Year’s Eve and Bonfire Night. Just not the dratted crackers. In the past their sharp bangs had indeed sometimes triggered nightmares, bringing up memories of gunfire, mines and grenades and evoking a mixture of dread and acute excitement John loathed himself for.

But Sherlock had perceived the true nature of his dream and for once John didn’t feel like hiding his distress. Not to Sherlock, who only a few hours ago had bared himself, his past and to some extend his feelings in an unprecedented way, and who had come here with a glass of water to offer comfort in a clumsy yet at the same time immeasurably kind and caring way.

“I’m not okay,” admitted John. “Or rather, I wasn’t when I woke up. It’s getting better now. You … you died in my dream.” _Again_ , he almost added. It wasn’t the first time the image of Sherlock’s pale, blood-streaked face had caused him to startle awake, and he knew that Sherlock was aware of that.

“I’m not dead,” he said gravely, turning to John again and fixing him with a long, steady glance.

“No, you’re not dead. And I’m glad you’re here, alive and everything.”

Sherlock nodded, fiddling with something in his pocket. He seemed nervous. “I told you that my true motive for coming up here was another than brining you water and making sure you see me alive. It was in fact far more selfishly motivated.”

John raised an eyebrow in question.

Sherlock went on, speaking quickly as if to get it over with yet with halts, making for a strangely jumpy rhythm. “I actually came because I couldn’t sleep and was wondering if I needed your proximity to … settle my thoughts. It’s helped in the past, when we’re on the sofa and you play with my hair. I like that. It’s soothing. It’s … good. But hearing you cry out made me reconsider my planned action. It seemed prudent and moreover appropriate to do something to alleviate your no doubt sore throat, and moreover to offer comfort instead of seeking it since you seem to be far worse off than I. I heard that’s what people do in situations like this. So,” he shrugged awkwardly, “do you … don’t know … need anything other than the water and the sight of me on my feet and undamaged? A hug, maybe, or something?" 

John stared at him in disbelief, only after a moment realising that his mouth was hanging open and that most likely he was looking utterly ridiculous. Sherlock was squirming slightly in discomfort or embarrassment.

“A hug?” John managed before finally his brain began to process the enormity of what was happening here. Sherlock Holmes, self-proclaimed sociopath who employed social mores only when they suited him in an investigation had ventured far out of this comfort zone and into the strange and – for him – mostly unchartered realm of expressing empathy to make sure John recovered from a nightmare and was able to sleep again tonight. John felt his heart swell at the notion.

Sherlock huffed, his hands clutching the insides of his pockets. “Forget it, it was a silly idea,” he said, his voice and expression hard and oddly disappointed. “Obviously my source of information about what people do was faulty. My apologies for disturbing you.” He turned to leave.

“Wait, don’t go,” John’s quick words caused him to halt. “It’s not silly. Actually, I think it’s an utterly brilliant idea. I was just a bit surprised to hear the offer from you as you’re not exactly the … um … hugging type, I guess. But that said, I … I’d really appreciate a hug from you, Sherlock.”

Slowly, the other turned and retraced his steps to the side of John’s bed. He looked tense and cautious. John smiled and extended a hand to him. “I must warn you, though, I’m a little wet.” He indicated his t-shirt. 

Stiffly, Sherlock lowered himself to the edge of the mattress. John scooted a little closer, noticing that the other wasn’t wearing any socks.

“God, Sherlock, you must be freezing,” he declared.

Lifting the duvet, he motioned for the other to move under it. Sherlock hesitated but only briefly before his expression softened into what to John looked like an almost grateful one. He shed his dressing gown and slid under the cover, coming to rest on his right side. John lay down again, too, covering both of them. The bed was a small double and just wide enough for the two of them.

“Well?” he gazed at Sherlock expectantly. It would be so easy to tease the other for his obvious awkwardness in this novel situation, but John knew it would be an entirely wrong and even hurtful move. Sherlock was trying to be kind and considerate, and John was going to make sure he wasn’t going to regret it.

“Hugging won’t work very well with our positions,” the detective that thoughtfully as if analysing a skin sample or the imprint of a shoe’s profile. He gazed at John, evaluating their respective positions carefully and scientifically. John felt a smile creep over his face.

“I can’t fully move both arms unless we sit up,” explained Sherlock, “which would mean exposure to the cold air again. So proper hugging is out.” He tilted his head thoughtfully before a light ignited in his eyes.

“But you could put your head on my chest,” Sherlock concluded. “Usually we do it the other way round – not exactly hugging but cuddling, which seems to involve less arm action and more full body proximity. I find that it eases me and helps me concentrate, listening to your heartbeat. So unless you insist on a proper hug, maybe we could try that, given that after this particular dream you may need some additional and strong reassurance that I’m … well … alive. Ergo, listening to my heartbeat should do the trick. I must warn you, though, that my feet are indeed very cold, should you consider threading your legs through mine.”

John laughed softly at the warning. Sherlock scowled. “Not good?”

Shifting closer, John shook his head. “Very good, Sherlock. Just …,” he laughed again, “just very strangely phrased. But that’s nothing new with you, is it? Right, let’s try this ‘cuddling the other way round with less arm action thing’.”

With that, he drew close enough to wrap his right arm round Sherlock’s torso and rest his head on the other’s chest. He smelled of shampoo, deodorant and faintly of detergent, with a whiff of garlic from the döner kebab mostly masked by peppermint toothpaste. Sherlock lay quite still for a while before lightly placing his hands on John’s back.

Even though they had shared a bed before and even lain huddled close together (not to mention their more steamy encounters, few though there had been), to John it felt strange to have their positions exchanged. Usually it had indeed been Sherlock who had wrapped himself round the other. John had been with other partners taller than him before since a considerable number of women exceeded his own height, but even then he’d never fallen asleep in this position. It felt unusual but good to not resemble the more … he lacked the right term … protective part for once. Yes, that was it. Usually, he was the one people rested on, people came for healing or comfort for. And here he was in Sherlock’s slightly stiff and clumsy embrace, feeling … safe. He swallowed, his throat and chest tight of a sudden.

Sherlock seemed to sense the wave of sentiment crashing over John. He shifted a little, his arms tightening around John before one of his hands wandered to his hair and began to pet it gingerly. “Does it help?” he asked, a trace of insecurity in his voice. John felt the words rumble in his chest and smiled.

“Yeah, I think so. It’s better than a hug.” He squeezed Sherlock gently in return. “Thank you.”

“Any time. Okay, perhaps not when I’m working on an experiment and need my hands, and much less at a crime scene. After all, I have a reputation to uphold.”

John chuckled. “I think you ruined that reputation by snogging me in the morgue in front of an audience. Still, you seem to be getting the hang of the ‘caring lark’.”

“It was never my intention to ‘get the hang’ of it,” huffed Sherlock, but without any sharpness. “But it looks like you’ve ruined me.”

John chuckled against his chest. “Well, I wouldn’t worry about it too much as long as you still turn our kitchen into a disaster zone on a fairly regular basis and phone the _Guardian_ about the errors in their crosswords.”

“I didn’t phone them, I emailed,” corrected Sherlock.

“Of course you did,” said John around yawn.

They lay in silence for a while, Sherlock still absently stroking John’s hair. It felt good and brought up memories of John’s grandmother doing the same. Eventually, Sherlock’s hand wandered down John’s neck to come to rest on his left shoulder, hovering over the exit scar of his gunshot wound. Sherlock didn’t touch it, although John was rather sure he wanted to, and had been waiting for an opportunity for quite some time. Usually, John felt rather self-conscious about the scars, not necessarily because he thought them ugly, but rather because they reminded him of how he had received them, and of the men and women of his unit that hadn’t made it that day. Sherlock had seen his bare torso before, but hadn’t demanded a closer inspection despite his obvious fascination. John felt that since Sherlock had revealed so much about himself recently, he ought to return the favour.

“Go ahead, then,” he invited the other, nudging Sherlock’s fingers with his shoulder so that they came to rest over the scar. For a moment Sherlock seemed surprised, but then he began his gentle but thorough exploration through the fabric of John’s t-shirt, likely deducing half of the events by his touches alone. He didn’t comment on his findings, though.

“May I touch the skin,” he asked when apparently he had gained all information he could from exterior touch.

John sighed. “If you must,” he replied, but then smiled when Sherlock’s hand crept tentatively inside the collar of his t-shirt. Again the examination was lengthy yet gentle, even tickling slightly. John caught himself imagining what Sherlock might be like as a lover. Based on the way he kissed, John expected him to be focused and attentive, and very, very thorough. A spike of arousal shot through him and he quickly quelled the thoughts. Now was neither the time nor place to indulge in these things, not when they were sharing a kind of intimacy that had very little to do with sex, and yet seemed far more important for their relationship at this stage.

John lifted his head to steal a glance at Sherlock’s expression. He was frowning slightly, looking concentrated as he soaked up and stored information. John was mildly surprised that he wasn’t sprouting forth what he gained, telling John precisely how he had received the wound, what kind of bullet on what trajectory had torn his shoulder apart, how severe the subsequent infection had been. Even though John of course knew about all of that, he felt deep gratitude for Sherlock not pointing it all out to him again.

Eventually, Sherlock withdrew his hand, resting it lightly on top of the t-shirt again, almost like a protective cover of the sensitive spot. John sighed, feeling touched, and nuzzled into the warmth of the other’s chest, causing Sherlock to make the strange humming, almost purring sound that always seemed to indicate when he was relaxed and pleased. 

“I’d like to study the scar in daylight,” he announced. John chuckled.

“Would have surprised me if not. Would you like to take skin samples, too, and perhaps lick it to see if the scar tissue tastes different from the rest of me?”

John felt Sherlock tense and swallow, only then realising what he had said. Blood shot into his cheeks. “Uh …I didn’t mean …”

Sherlock seemed to have recovered from his surprise and to John’s immense relief took the question with humour.

“Yes, licking it is definitely on the agenda. I’m sure you won’t mind. Might even save you a shower, if I use enough saliva. For better scientific results I might have to cover the scar in various substances, too. The internet suggests cream, ice-cream, honey or nutella, so it might be beneficial for the sake of the study to try those first before moving on to other substances such as marmite. I will also make a cast of it in latex and check whether it glows under UV-light.”

John giggled. “Oh, shut up. Marmite is gross and evil. I forbid you to smear any on me.”

“Even if I lick it off afterwards?” Sherlock enquired slyly.

“Even then. Marmite is a no go. Stick to nutella, although preferably not from the glass that lives in the spices cupboard next to your alkalis. It smells funny and has a weird colour.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Not my doing. It might simply be old and the fat inside it has turned rancid. Unlike that McDonald’s burger they used for a long time experiment and which didn’t change substantially after months, some foodstuffs actually do turn bad.”

John shook his head, rubbing it against Sherlock’s chest, careful not to hit any of the buttons of his pyjama top. “How did we get from you licking stuff off my scar to the indestructibility of McDonald’s burgers?”

“Don’t know. Do you want to hear more about the burger experiment? I thought it quite fascinating if somewhat disquieting. Human tissue dissolves much faster than certain fast-foods. Wonder if anybody has written a comparative study about it.”

“Well, perhaps that’s something to occupy yourself with should boredom strike again, seeing that your essay on tobacco ash has been such a smashing success.”

“You’re teasing me, John,” Sherlock remarked petulantly.

“Yes, although admittedly in terms of scientific writing your essay was really good, the reasoning sound and very well researched. Just the prose was a bit … dry.”

“Says he who barely uses sentences longer than ten words.”

“My readers appreciate the brevity.”

“Your readers are idiots.”

John snorted out a laugh. “May I remind you who, to this day, has left the most comments on my blog and has read – and criticised – all my entries?”

Sherlock huffed and fell silent, although a quick glance revealed him smile at the ceiling, indicating he was not insulted, but, as usual, had enjoyed their banter. John settled his head on his chest again, smiling as well.

They lay in silence for a while. Sherlock hummed softly, his body vibrating with it, but John did not recognise any tune. Apparently Sherlock was thinking. John decided to leave him to it. He closed his eyes, enjoying the proximity of the other.

Suddenly the detective shifted a little and ceased his hum. “I think I’ll go there tomorrow.”

“Where?”

“Bart’s morgue. Molly may have something for me. She better does. When do you finish work tomorrow?”

“Officially at four, but it might be later, depending on whether Lester is back after his accident. Why? Any particular plans?”

“There is a concert at St. Martin in the Fields at seven. Late Renaissance and early Baroque music, like they played at Valloire.”

“Oh,” mumbled John around another yawn. He was beginning to get drowsy again, lulled by the steady rise and fall of his special pillow and the dull thrumming inside it. “Want to go?”

“We could. Have dinner before that, too, since you’re usually hungry after work.”

John smiled against Sherlock’s chest. “You know, this sounds dangerously like a date. And I hope you’re aware that if I accompany you to that concert, you’ll have to accompany me to the stadium for a football match. Such was the deal, remember?”

Sherlock made rumbling sound and shrugged. “Well, I might get lucky and a case will come up when the football is due.”

“Oh no, my friend, you won’t get out of that one so easily. You will sit through the match. But I’d be happy to accompany you tomorrow. As long as you don’t drag me into another teeny concert, I won’t complain. I actually rather liked what they played at Valloire. Want me to meet you at Bart’s, then? We can have dinner in the crypt at St. Martin’s. They do good puddings.”

“They also have candles on all the tables,” observed Sherlock. John lifted his head to look at him in the twilight and found him smiling.

John laughed, settling down again and squeezing Sherlock’s torso lightly. “And I thought we’d have to bring our own.”

“Don’t overdo it, John.”

“Always the last word.”

“Yes. After all, I have a reputation to defend, now that mine as a self-absorbed, uncaring arsehole seems to be going down the drain.”

“Ah well,” muttered John, resting his head more comfortably on Sherlock’s chest again and closing his eyes, “I’m sure you’ll find a way of reviving it – not that I mind its decline, though. Be nice to Molly tomorrow.”

“Depends on whether she has something for me. I’ll use your phone for a bit.”

“Leave it plugged in to charge after you’re done, though,” John managed. “And don’t change my ringtone to something weird again. Made a complete fool of myself when it went off on the tube two weeks ago and made those ridiculous hyena sounds.”

Sherlock chuckled. “I’ll try and find an embarrassing song this time.”

“Don’t you dare. Get some sleep instead. Nudge me or push me off when I get too heavy.”

“It’s fine. Good night, John.” John felt Sherlock shift a little to move his head to be able to kiss John’s hair. He smiled and hummed a reply before surrendering to the lull of sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Artwork again: "[The scar](http://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/67251498813/the-scar-illustration-and-teaser-for-chapter)"


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincere apologies for the delay. Real Life has been uncooperative, and all my hopes of finishing this story before the airing of Series Three were dashed. Even though in a few days the Over/Under-verse this story is set in will officially become an AU I hope you'll continue reading as we're finally approaching the actual case. Thanks for your patience, and again for commenting and leaving kudos.

It turned out Molly had indeed something for Sherlock, though not in a form either he or John had anticipated.

John woke up alone in the spot Sherlock had previously occupied. It was difficult to tell when he had left the bed. He had, however, left some text messages on John’s mobile, the earliest from 5:26, about two hours ago.

_Dimmock called, body found at florist in Kensington late last night. Looks like an accident but even Dimmock thinks there’s something fishy about it. Finally a case! SH_

_Will text you later with more details, on my way now. SH_

_Got the tickets for tonight, might have to cancel, though, depending on how case develops. SH_

_On the other hand music helps me think. May not cancel even if case proves more complicated than it sounds. Will let you know. SH_

_Made tea. If you hurry it’ll still be warm. SH_

_If Mycroft calls or texts you, ignore it. He’s been trying to reach me all day yesterday and the day before but I don’t want to talk to him. He might try again through you, so be vigilant. SH_

_Look out for black cars on your way to work. Best take the Tube. SH_

John smiled as he scrolled through the texts. Whatever dark cloud had hung over Sherlock’s head these past days, it now seemed forgotten as he enjoyed the thrill of a new case. Only his remark about Mycroft set John’s alarm bells tingling. Perhaps, he mused, it would be a good idea after all to let himself get kidnapped by the elder Holmes brother and quiz him about the events in Switzerland. Whatever misgivings Sherlock might have about his ‘meddling’, given the fact that he himself wasn’t exactly forthcoming with information and clearly in a troubled state because of what had befallen, John felt his reluctance to confer with the British Government lessen daily. Then again this action might damage the tender trust and intimacy that had developed between Sherlock and himself over the past days, and John didn’t want to risk that.

He sighed as he crawled out of bed. There was indeed a mug of tea on the bedside table, but it was already cold, indicating that Sherlock had made it at least an hour ago. The time of the text wasn’t a real indication, though, since Sherlock was won’t to text John from downstairs, or even from the living room when John was in the kitchen. John sipped from the drink. He knew it was irrational, not to mention somewhat gross because in his opinion cold tea simply didn’t cut it, but to just pour it away after Sherlock had made such an effort didn’t feel right.

 _Thanks for the tea_ , he texted back. _And do keep me informed about the case_. _I’d love to have a reason to skip work today._

As was his wont, Sherlock replied almost immediately, making John wonder if he had waited for a message.

_Will do. Cause of death very straightforward: fell down a stair and into his knife. No accident, though, despite made to look like one. Motive unclear still. SH_

A few seconds later another text arrived. _Why would anyone murder a shop assistant? SH_

 _Don’t know_ , John replied _, perhaps they stole something. Had an affair with the owner that turned nasty. Love triangle. Convoluted family problems. Money troubles. Debt. Could be anything._

_Sadly, yes. SH_

While John was getting ready in the bathroom, his phone continued to chime as Sherlock ran several theories past him. John read them smiling around his toothbrush and wishing he were in Kensington to watch his consulting detective at work.

After a quick breakfast (with hot tea) he set out for the surgery, checking his surroundings carefully for inconspicuous black cars and resisting the temptation to flag down a cab. It would provide more comfort than the Tube, but cause him to be late for work again because of the inevitable rush-hour gridlock.

 _Do you like amaryllis? SH_ , his phone announced when he had almost reached his destination and he had signal again down below. He grinned broadly. Gosh, Sherlock was really overdoing the dating thing, wasn’t he? Then again he rarely did anything by half.

 _Why, are you going to bring me flowers to our date tonight? Didn’t think you’d be such a romantic, Sherlock,_ he teased, wishing he could see the eyeroll and hear the indignant snort.

_Nothing romantic about it. My coat upset a vase of them and I may have to pay for the damage. Might as well take the flowers, then. They can’t sell them anymore because most of their stalks are broken. SH_

_Well, Mrs. Hudson likes them, so bring her some as an apology for Saturday’s kitchen carnage_ , John texted back. _And why can’t they sell them anymore if the flowers are okay? They can simply cut off the damaged stalk and use the rest for short bouquets or baskets._

_Oh, John, you are brilliant._

_Yeah, I know._

_No, you’re more brilliant than usual. Conductor of light indeed._

John smiled, feeling warmth spread in his chest. _Hope Mrs. Hudson will think so, too. And why did you stop signing your texts? You must be inspired indeed._

_No time. Forget Mrs. Hudson. I think I’m on to something._

_SH!_

After that, the phone remained silent. John sighed as he climbed the stairs out of the underground station, feeling an odd and entirely irrational sense of abandonment. This, however, was immediately quenched upon reaching his workplace. Again the surgery was full of people. He quickly set to work after a quick hello to his colleagues and a briefing of fellow doctor Lester who had finally returned after his motorcycle accident. Then it was snotty noses, allergies, an ear infection, an in-grown toe-nail and several other mostly small maladies, as well as the occasional chat and encouraging talk for the elderly and often lonely patients.

During a short tea-break John checked his phone again which he had set on silent during appointments. Again there was a long list of texts

_There was nothing in the amaryllis. SH_

_Do you know any other flowers with hollow stalks that are being sold around this time of year? SH_

_Come on, John, you must know. You’re the one who always bought these ridiculous bouquets for your prospective girlfriends. Don’t tell me you never looked at the stalks. SH_

_Dahlias aren’t in season anymore, are they? SH_

_Florist says no. SH_

_Did you know that they don’t use wire to support the stalks of gerbera at this place but transparent plastic tubes that are then heated to contract and coat the stalk? Fascinating. Requires lots of experience to get the timing right, though. Shop owner says the dead assistant was good at it. SH_

_How on earth does one get lily pollen off one’s clothes? SH_

_I really need to know, John, so check your phone. My coat is ruined otherwise. Apparently you can’t wash it off. SH_

The text was accompanied by a photograph showing the back of Sherlock’s Belstaff stained with bright orange pollen. John smiled and shook his head. Picking up his empty teacup and his phone, he went to the reception.

“Dorothy, do you happen to know how to get flower pollen off clothing?”

Dorothy raised an eyebrow at him. “My husband does the washing,” she said, quite reprovingly. “I can ask him, though.”

“Carefully brush it off with something rough,” chimed in an elderly lilac-haired lady from the waiting area. “Don’t rub it in, and don’t use water and soap. It’s too fatty, the pollen. Won’t come off that way and you’ll ruin the garment. Foamy stuff works well, like foam sticks you use for packaging. Good clothes brush is the best deal, though.”

“Oh, thank you, Mrs. Hayles,” said John, recalling that she used to be a gardener.

Returning to his room, _Try to wipe it off if it just sits on top of the wool_ , John texted back. _Use something with a rough surface. Don’t brush at it too vigorously to rub it into the fabric. Mrs. Hayles suggests foam sticks or something similar._

 _Yes, florist here suggested foam mats from amaryllis and anthurium cartons, SH_ , came Sherlock’s reply. _Trouble is, there aren’t any left in the boxes._

_Maybe they’re already using the new packaging for these flowers. Ah, but owner says no as it’s still too expensive. SH_

_Oh!_

_That is good. That is brilliant._

_What is brilliant, Sherlock?_ enquired John, infected by the other’s enthusiasm.

_Can’t be sure yet, we have to search the entire shop now and I need to run some experiments. Meet me at Bart’s when you’re finished at work._

_Finish early. SH_

 

**- <o>-**

 

John managed to leave more than an hour early. There had been no more texts from Sherlock, indicating he was busy indeed, leaving John curious and excited about the case. He walked to Bart’s because the weather, despite being cold and windy, was dry, and the late afternoon sun made quite a spectacle of the white dome of St. Paul’s and the glass-fronted buildings of the City.

On the corridor to the lab at Bart’s morgue he met Molly. She looked flushed and rather confused, carrying a bunch of amaryllis in the crook of her arm and a somewhat bemused expression.

“Oh, hello, John,” she greeted him.

“Hi, Molly.” He glanced at the flowers and grinned. “Someone’s been generous.”

Molly let out an irritated snort. “Don’t ask. Sherlock gave them to me.”

“So I guessed,” replied John.

“There are plenty more. He told me to send some to Mrs. Hudson, too, and keep the rest or throw them away.” She shrugged helplessly. “As much as I appreciate them – I mean, he’s never given me anything before apart from a packet of quavers and these are really lovely –, he wasn’t very friendly about it. To be honest, I don’t know what’s going on with him at the moment. He’s been behaving more strangely than usual.”

“How so?” enquired John, trying to quench the faint feeling of unease.

Molly shrugged. “Well, he arrived with two police constables carrying bunches and buckets and cartons of flowers, shortly after the body of the dead shop assistant arrived. He shouldn’t have been brought here in the first place but to a morgue in a Kensington or Chelsea hospital since the area is their responsibility. But apparently Sherlock wanted me to have a look at the body. And I’m not even officially here today as it’s my day off. Just testing some samples for a friend.”

“Well, he knows you’re the best,” said John, causing her to blush and make a gesture to brush off the compliment.

“Don’t,” he added sincerely. “He really thinks very highly of you even if he can’t express it properly, and it’s well justified.”

“Enough to give me flowers?” she stated with an expression that looked like she was trying very hard to stay serious.

“Yeah, well, don’t think I’m the right kind of recipient for them. Also, they wouldn’t survive long in our flat but most likely end up in his experiments." 

“Oh, he’s been running experiments on them all afternoon. These are some of the few that survived intact. He told me to tape the lower ends of the stalks with sellotape to prevent them from splitting and curling upwards in the water,” she said with a thoughtful glance at the flowers.

John laughed softly. “Smartarse,” he said fondly.

She grinned. “Yes, indeed. You know, I often wonder about the way he stores information, and what precisely he keeps up there in his big brain. He knows the botanical names of all the flowers and about their symbolism in Victorian times and everything, but when D.I. Dimmock and I chatted about the upcoming Doctor Who anniversary he just stared at us blankly as if he’d heard of the Doctor for the first time.”

“Ah yes, he must have deleted our Doctor Who session, then,” mused John.

Molly cocked her head, eyeing him keenly. “Things are all right between you, aren’t they? Not, not that it’s my place to ask,” she added quickly, looking embarrassed.

She hesitated for a moment, but then apparently decided to plunge on regardless. “Only ... what I said earlier ... he was really behaving strangely today, even by his standards. At times he was totally focused on the case, studying the body, analysing flower samples and pieces of foam from the flower boxes. You know how he gets when he’s excited by a new riddle. But then there were times when he stopped what he was doing to check his phone. And he just froze and stared at the screen for a long while. His brother called several times, or texted. I know because at one point he got really annoyed and told me to take his phone and block the number, which I did. I think his brother tried again from another number and he ignored it, but suddenly he was looking sad again, staring ahead into nothing for a long time. He didn’t react when I addressed him. He looked all right, though, not deeply troubled, but then again he’s such a good actor." 

She shrugged, still looking worried. “It was like ... like before. You know. Before he jumped.” Seeing John’s expression she bit her lip. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have ...”

“No, it’s fine, Molly,” John said quietly. “You’re very observant. There’s something weighing on his mind, something he hasn’t even disclosed to me. It’s something to do with his family, I think. Things between us are ...,” he shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck and grinning somewhat abashedly. “Strange. New. Complicated. Good. He ate three meals yesterday.”

Molly grinned. “Oh, that’s why the shirt is so tight today.”

“Hey, hey, I would kindly ask you to stop ogling my ...”

“Boyfriend?” she suggested with a rather wicked grin.

He shrugged. “Yeah, I guess. I’m still not sure what terminology to use with regards to him.”

“For now partner will do,” rang a familiar baritone from the other end of the corridor.

John sighed and rolled his eyes before giving Molly a meaningful glance. She grinned. “Smartarse indeed,” she mouthed, before, “I better go and _tape_ these flowers,” she said aloud and left, winking at John.

John gave her a smile and turned to the source of the baritone. As was his uncanny wont, Sherlock had materialised in the midst of the corridor and was striding towards him pocketing his mobile, his coat and scarf over one arm. John noticed he was wearing a white shirt today and that it was indeed rather tight. Given that evidence, he really couldn’t find it in him to blame Molly for taking an extra look.

Of course Sherlock noticed him staring. He straightened up and drew a deep breath to put even more strain on his poor buttons. _Bloody tease_ , thought John.

“How long have you been eavesdropping, then?” he asked.

Sherlock gave a haughty jerk of head. “No need for that. The corridor creates quite an echo.”

“Right.”

Sherlock didn’t seem to mind that John had discussed him with Molly, and since he didn’t look like he was going to raise the subject, John decided not to, either.

“What about the case, then?” he asked instead. “Solved it?”

A familiar spark ignited in Sherlock’s eyes. “Oh yes. I’ve just given Dimmock the details so he can scurry off and make some arrests, but I’ll happily tell you again. You’re a better audience anyway, far more appreciative. Dimmock is so dull, I sometimes wonder how he can exist. Well, at least he had enough sense to call me in the first place.”

“Thanks. Well, let’s hear it, then, genius.” Gazing in the direction Molly had left, he asked, “What’s going to happen with all the flowers you had brought here? Are they evidence?

Sherlock shook his head. “I thought they might be, but they proved superfluous. The hospital can dispose of them. I left Molly in charge. Mrs. Hudson is going to receive some as well, as per your orders.”

“At least she’s likely to appreciate them.”

“So did Molly.”

“Perhaps. But you shouldn’t have bothered her on her day off. Don’t you think she has better things to do? Ah well, I’m sure the patients here will appreciate them.”

Sherlock only frowned as he donned his coat and wrapped the scarf round his neck before flipping up the collar. John shook his head. “It was kind of you to give some to Molly, although she seemed a little irritated by the gesture.”

“You told me to be nice to her today. Do you want to hear about the case now or not?”

“Of course I want to. Are we going to walk to St. Martin’s. Or has there been a change of plan?”

“We can walk. You need to be fed soon or you’ll get grumpy, and I need to think. Watch out for suspiciously understated cars, though, black Jaguars or Mercedes. Mycroft’s minions will be on the prowl because I continued to ignore him today." 

“Yeah, Molly mentioned. What was all this about, then? He didn’t try to contact me, by the way, nor abduct me. But don’t you think something important’s going on when he tries to reach you so many times?”

“It’s not important,” growled Sherlock. “I know what he wants, and I’ve told him very clearly that I’m not interested. I wish he’d simply take my word for it and let the matter rest.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“No,” came the curt reply, followed by an eyeroll and a dramatic sigh. “Stop staring at me like that. If you need to know, he’s trying to convince me it’s for my best to return to Zürich and talk to …” – he pulled a face – “people. I know it would be contrary to my best to do so, that’s why I’m ignoring him. If our parents are so desperate for my attention, they should have stated an interest a long time ago. Now it’s quite too late, after everything that happened. Case closed. Speaking of a case, though ...” And off he went.

John tried to hide his disappointment at learning no more about his friend’s troubles. He gave a small sigh, but then put the matter behind him as he listened to Sherlock describe the Kensington case while they excited the hospital.

 

**- <o>-**

 

“After Dimmock had mentioned that Anderson was on forensics, I was anxious that the crime scene had been completely messed up,” Sherlock began his account. “But surprise, nothing of the sort. Anderson had done really good work instead. It had been his idea that the assistant couldn’t have been victim of an ill-fated accident, not Dimmock’s, although admittedly a child could have made the connection. The hands gave him away, you see.

“The hands?” asked John dutifully.

“Yes, obviously. The young man, twenty-four, relatively new to the job after having failed to land employment as a geologist after graduating from university, was found at the bottom of the stairs leading down into the cellar where they store the cut flowers to keep them cool. Apparently a delivery from the Netherlands had arrived last night and he had been called in to help unload and take care of the most perishable species like roses that needed to be watered immediately.”

“Can’t imagine he was glad about being called in, yesterday being Sunday.”

“Yes, that’s what I initially thought as well. The shop’s owner, however, said he was eager to come. She thought it was because of holiday and overtime pay, but his true motive was another, as I’ll explain in a moment.”

“Why were they getting a delivery on a Sunday, anyway?” enquired John.

“It should have arrived the previous day, but the ferry from Hoek van Holland to Harwich had been delayed due to the stormy weather.”

John nodded. “Yeah, makes sense. There was some trouble on the A12, too, so the lorry might have been stuck in traffic there. So he came in late on Sunday. What happened then? Wasn’t the owner in as well, or other people working there?”

“She left after most of the flowers had been stored in the cellar to attend her daughter’s choir recital. She was seen there, so her alibi is sound. The shop assistant had a key and was left in charge of taking care of the roses, and to take the anthuriums out of their cartons and store them somewhere warm to prevent them from getting discoloured, meaning he had to climb the stairs to the shop several times, often laden with bunches of flowers or even water-filled containers.”

“So what exactly spoke against him slipping on the stairs and getting killed in the fall?”

“He didn’t break his neck, for one, which indeed might have been a possibility given the steepness of the stairs and the fact they were slightly uneven. They used to be one of the greatest killers in Victorian and Edwardian times, stairs, did you know? Particularly dangerous for the serving staff. But as I said, the stairs were not to blame, although when he was found it looked like he had miss-stepped and fallen so unfortunately that he had impaled himself on his flower knife.”

“Bad luck, but probable, if he was careless enough to navigate the dangerous staircase with an open knife in his hands.”

“True,” agreed Sherlock with a faint smile that John knew as his but-I-know-something-that-you-don’t-smile, but lacking the haughty superiority that it usually sported when Sherlock wore it to impress or daunt others. “The thing is, the knife wasn’t his.”

“Oh, were there fingerprints of another person on the knife?”

“No, only his.”

“Was he … don’t know, left-handed, and it was a knife for right-handed people or the other way round?”

“Good thinking, but no, although the way the knife was honed had something to do with it, or indeed the type of knife in general.”

“There are special knives for cutting flowers?” asked John incredulously. “Well, I guess there’s specialty equipment for everything.”

“Indeed there is. The knife that had killed him wasn’t a florist’s knife, though. That was the first clue that something was strange about the ‘accident’.”

“So Anderson found out about the knife?”

“No, that would have been too advanced for him. He found out about the hands, though. You see, the assistant, even though he was cutting and arranging flowers on a regular basis didn’t have the typical florist’s hands: calloused, criss-crossed by cuts and other minor injuries, stained by resin from working with coniferous material and other evergreens at this time of the year, even burn marks from using glue guns or coating the stalks of gerbera in plastic. In fact, his hands were fairly smooth and undamaged.”

“He used gloves, then?”

“Yes. We found several pairs, but they, too, didn’t show the cuts around the thumb that would indicate working predominately with a knife. The owner later confirmed that he mostly used shears to cut off the flower stalks, a fact she wasn’t happy about because their pressure damages the vascular bundles, preventing most flowers from drawing sufficient water and causing them to wilt more quickly. But it was obvious why he was preferring to use shears as they are easier to handle with the gloves on.”

“Why was he wearing gloves? Trying to keep his hands smooth and shiny, or did he have allergies or some other skin condition?”

“The latter, although vanity might have played a small part as well. According to his medical records he was allergic to several pesticides and the sap from hyacinths and narcissus, even reacting to the sap of amaryllis hippeastrum which contains far less of the irritant calcium oxalate than other _amaryllidoideae_.”

“Not the most ideal condition to be working in a flower shop, was it?” mused John. “Wait, if he was wearing gloves and not using a knife, why were his fingerprints on the one found in him? Someone else’s doing?”

Sherlock grinned. “Obviously. As for his motive for working at a flower shop, he was purely doing it for the money. And here we come to the motive for his murder. Can you guess?”

John shrugged. “I’ve already stated some suggestions or theories. But you were looking for something in the hollow stalks of the flowers, weren’t you? So … don’t know … bloke seems to have needed money somewhat urgently if he took on a job his health didn’t really agree with. In addition to him being eager to work overtime and on a holiday … I guess there was something illegal going on. Had debts, perhaps, had to pay off a uni loan or something, so …. Was he involved in smuggling, perchance? You mentioned amaryllis and flowers with hollow stalks. I saw the ones you gave to Molly. You could hide quite a lot in those stalks. And given the fact the shop most likely got most of their flowers from Holland … don’t know … drugs, perhaps? Marihuana, or those new-fangled not-quite-illegal-but-still-dangerous party drugs the kids use with alarming frequency?”

He gazed at Sherlock who was walking next to him, the wind blowing the hair from his face to expose his high forehead, making him look older and distinguished, particularly as his dark-clad figure was currently flanked by two red-and-silver painted dragons while they were crossing Holborn Viaduct. Sherlock was beaming at him, looking pleased and proud, majestic and striking and beautiful. John’s heart leapt.

“Excellent,” exclaimed Sherlock excitedly. “You should have been there. You’re right, he was indeed involved in smuggling drugs, although more expensive and deadly ones than grass and pills, which he might well have started out with back at university. No, he was higher up the ladder by now, and his and his confederates’ methods more advanced. As I texted you, there was nothing hidden in the flowers themselves, although I did check some, particularly those that were dyed or sprayed or otherwise treated. They even coat them in wax nowadays, did you know?”

“Yeah, I saw them on several graves last year when … never mind,” John added quickly.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, his exuberant mood deflating. “When you visited mine,” he finished John’s sentence. John sighed.

“Yes. Someone had left one of those waxed roses on Remembrance Sunday, as well as a wreath of silk poppies.”

Sherlock scoffed. “What?” asked John, slightly rankled at the dismissal.

“I’m not a war hero. Not a hero at all. We’ve discussed that, remember? Even you rolled your eyes when everybody and their aunt and even the news presenters on the telly started wearing poppies weeks prior to Remembrance Sunday, and you’re one of the people they’re sticking them on for.”

“I don’t dislike the custom,” John defended himself. “It’s comforting to see all those remembered who have been affected by wars, on any side.” He sighed. “Still, sometimes it’s just a bit too much, particularly when you’re under the impression it’s not sincere, just a thing people do because it’s … proper, whatever that means.”

Sherlock gave him one of his grave, unfathomable gazes and nodded very slightly. They walked in silence for a while, their shoulders touching occasionally.

“It was sincere in your case,” John said suddenly. “There were always fresh flowers on your grave. Messages, too, and small gifts and tokens.” He drew a deep breath before lifting his gaze and turning his head to glance at Sherlock who was looking pensive of a sudden. “It helped me, you know.”

“What, not having to bring flowers yourself?”

 John snorted, torn between wry laughter and indignation. “Yes, you prat. Saved quite some money that way, knowing that there were enough people out there to cover your grave with them. Made me wonder whether I should have to visit at all, knowing that this, too, was taken care of by your fans.”

Sherlock bit his lip. “But you did. Visit, I mean.”

John kicked at a cigarette stub on the pavement. “From time to time. Sometimes I took Mrs. Hudson, sometimes I went by myself. A few times I swore that it would be my last visit because … well, looking at that black headstone and imagining you underneath it just hurt. But I returned nevertheless.”

Sherlock shot him a sideways glance. “Hope you removed the artificial flowers at some point. I dislike those.”

John turned to him fully, glaring at him darkly. “You know what, if you dare to die before me again, or worse, pretend to, I’ll pile your fucking grave with artificial flowers so you can’t see the headstone anymore. I’ll also sprinkle coloured pebbles around them behind a border of fake grass, and add two of those snow globe-like things with saints in them like you find in Irish cemeteries and a plastic copy of Michelangelo’s David. I’ll also put up a photo of you wearing the deerstalker and surround it by coloured blinking fairy-lights for good measure.”

Sherlock opened his mouth and shut it again. He blinked. “Thanks for the warning,” he then managed, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Do note that it is not my intention to die again any time soon. Also note that should you entertain the idea of deceasing before me, your final resting place will receive the same treatment.”

“Hah, no it won’t. I want to be cremated and buried in one of those forests. It’s in my will, too. No flowers and stuff are allowed there, much less anything made of plastic. But you’re welcome to share my tree when the time comes.”

Sherlock’s gaze on him softened. John noted how his friend swallowed very slightly. “I’d like that,” he said quietly.

Reaching out, John touched his hand and clasped it briefly. “Try not to become tree food any time soon, okay.”

Sherlock smiled, returning the pressure. “The same goes for you.”

“Right.” John cleared his throat. “Hey, your hands are bloody cold. Did you forget your gloves?”

“Yes. Let’s walk faster. We can cross here and take Fetter Lane down to Fleet Street and the Strand.”

“We can take a cab if you’re cold,” suggested John as they waited for a break in traffic in order to cross the road.

Sherlock shook his head, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his coat. “I’m fine. I haven’t finished my account of the case. Can you guess how the drugs were smuggled?”

John thought for a moment, trying to force his mind back on the case after its detour into grief-land.

“Hm, taking into account all you said – or texted –, I’d say there was stuff hidden in the foam, correct? That’s why you couldn’t find any of the material to treat the stains on your coat with. The fellow nicked it and hid it somewhere. Did you find it? And did you manage to save it, by the way? The coat, I mean.”

Sherlock actually swirled the tails of his Belstaff around so that John could see its pristine and un-pollinated surface. “Anderson had the right brush,” he stated. “Although he complained about me contaminating it after I’d borrowed it. Still, I managed to placate him by actually commending him for once. He didn’t trust my words, thought I was making fun of him, until he realised I wasn’t, after which he eyed me even more suspiciously and asked whether I was all right. But yes, the foam. It was laced with heroin, and there was cocaine in some of the bags containing plant-food for cut flowers. High quality, too. And no, I didn’t try it. I left the analysis to the forensics lot.”

John frowned. “So the victim had been collecting the foamy packaging material and what? Hoarded it an passed it on to his contacts at the opportune moment who then extracted the stuff again?”

“Yes, more or less.”

“Wouldn’t they need lab equipment for it?”

“Some, certainly. But nowadays you have people growing cannabis in their basements or attics. We have a functioning lab in our kitchen. It really isn’t very difficult to set one up in a common household, or to gain access to a professional one with the right connections.”

“Yeah, guess so,” mused John. “And the flower shop’s owner and his colleagues, they didn’t know a thing?”

“That’s what the owner claims, at least. But Dimmock has her in for questioning right now, the other employees will follow.”

“So why was the bloke murdered, then? Couldn’t make a delivery quickly enough because of the delay? Fell in with the wrong crowd?”

“Possibly. He appears to have been dealing with several different – and adversarial – parties at the same time and lost track of his many obligations. Moreover it looks like he got greedy and wanted to switch business partners. His former clients weren’t too happy about it.”

“Do you know who they were?”

“Not for certain. I made some suggestions, though as there are a number of candidates. Moreover a thorough analysis of both drugs should provide the missing information as the police should be able to compare their finds with samples in their database. Also, border police at Harwich and Dutch police must be involved as well to find out why a considerable number of shipments went through undetected, meaning the transport wasn’t searched properly. Dogs would have been able to detect the drugs even in this state, meaning whoever was involved in the transaction on the other side of the Channel must be someone working in the flower industry, most likely in packaging them for transport, or even at the auction in Aalsmeer. But that’s Dimmock’s problem now.”

“You’re not going to investigate further?”

“What for? The riddle is solved. The rest is simple police procedure. They can do a little work themselves, don’t you think?”

John smiled and shook his head. “If you say so. Let’s hope they’ll have another case for you soon.”

Sherlock made a rumbling sound. “So do I.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

The reached St. Martin-in-the-Fields at around five o’clock, the exact time dinner was served at the restaurant in the crypt. Since there was a queue at the cafeteria-like counter, the two men waited for a short while in the foyer. While Sherlock read the announcement for future concerts at the box office, John wandered between the showcases exhibiting six small scale sculptures.

“I didn’t know you were interested in modern art,” Sherlock’s voice came from behind him.

John shrugged. “They’re proposals for the new sculpture out on Trafalgar Square. Not sure which one I prefer. They’re all a bit … well … modern. I’ve rather gotten used to the blue cock out there by now.”

“They should choose the rock formation,” stated Sherlock after a thorough look at the six proposals. “It looks like one of the tors in Dartmoor.”

John smiled. “That’s true. Or like a face in profile, if you look from this position. Come on, I’m starving. Hope the queue is shorter now.”

 

-<o>-

 

They got their food – John opted for the meat course while Sherlock chose the soup-and-pudding deal – and instead of occupying one of the tables in the main crypt, a rather noisy place bustling with tourists, they withdrew into the smaller room next to it where they settled on the low leather cubes in one of the arched niches. The room was generally used for art exhibitions, and the rough brick walls and some of the pillars were covered in abstract prints and drawings by an artist named Lowcock, and in curtains of strung up dried leaves. There were a few people walking around viewing the artworks, but nobody else occupied the seats and tables. John tried but didn’t quite manage to hide his smile at Sherlock carrying his tray over while trying to look his haughty and imperious self and not succeeding.

Sherlock, of course, noticed his amusement. “What?” he demanded as he arranged his coat around him after sitting down.

“Nothing. It’s just … seeing you in that queue. You looked really out of place amongst all those tourists.”

Sherlock frowned. “You know I can blend in perfectly if I have to.” He gazed around as if searching for something.

“Forgot the milk for your tea?” asked John. “You can have some of mine. I got two.”

Sherlock only gave a twitch of head, rose and disappeared into the main crypt, only to return an instant later with a small glass and a tea candle which he set on the table between them. John stared at him incredulously.

“You’re really into that dating thing, aren’t you,” he teased.

“I need something to warm my hands.”

“You have a hot mug of tea, a bowl of equally hot soup and a huge portion of steaming bread-and-butter pudding with custard and you want to warm your hands on a tiny tea candle? Seriously, Sherlock, that’s the worst deflection I’ve ever heard. But I appreciate the effort, I really do. Looks cosy and … er … romantic.”

Sherlock didn’t react, but sat quite still, staring into the small flame with a grave expression. John reached out to gently touch his right hand which he had extended towards it, resting it close to the glass.

“Hey, are you okay?” he enquired worriedly. “Listen, I really didn’t want to make fun of you. Gosh, your hand is still cold. Give it here, the other one, too.”

“I’m fine,” said Sherlock, but he did lay both hands into John’s and let him rub them gently. “I left in such a hurry this morning that I forgot the gloves, and it was freezing in that cellar where they stored the flowers.”

“Well, it doesn’t look like you’ve contracted frostbite. But according to the weather forecast temperatures are about to drop, so better have your gloves ready. Hope you’re not coming down with something. You’re usually not that sensitive to cold.”

Sherlock shrugged and slipped his hands out of John’s again to reach for his cutlery. They ate in silence for a while, John wondering about the strange grave mood that had settled over his friend, who repeatedly would pause his spoon to silently stare into the candlelight. Was it the family thing again, he wondered. Or something else? Sherlock had been his usual chatty self after the solved case, but his exuberance and need to show off had been subdued even then.

Having finished his soup, he put down the spoon to again extend his fingers to the candle. John watched how his large hands began to glow warmly as he held them in front of the flame.

“ _The Little Match Girl_ ,” said Sherlock suddenly. “Do you know the story?”

John swallowed a bite of his chicken and nodded. “Yeah. We had all the Andersen tales in various books, although I always preferred Hauff’s fairy-tales as they’re more adventurous and less … well … depressing. What made you think of that story?”

“My parents read the Andersen tales to me when I was little. Mostly my father, when he still did such things. I always wondered why she didn’t just knock on one of the houses to spend the night in relative warmth.”

John shrugged. “Perhaps because she was poor and wouldn’t have been welcome even among the servants. But it’s a fairy-tale, Sherlock. Logic doesn’t always work there as they have rules and conventions of their own. And she was reunited with her granny in the end.”

“Yes, but she was dead, too. No happy ending there. Although dying of hypothermia is supposed to be relatively easy and free of pain.” He passed his fingers over the candle flame, causing it to shiver. “I used to wonder about it, during the winter I was away.”

John sat up a little straighter. “Were you in any danger of such an end?” he asked quietly, not sure he wanted an answer and swallowing when Sherlock gave a brief nod.

“Twice. Once at St. Petersburg during a stakeout in an unheated house and temperatures under -30° Celcius. And again on the passage to the US on a container ship. I was already ill then. The crew were aware of a presence on board because someone stole their food and some of their clothes, but they hadn’t found me despite searching for me. I couldn’t withdraw below decks, so I had to hide outside for the night, at least long enough for them to stop the search to engage in some Christmas festivities, which mostly consisted of gambling and drinking cheap vodka. So I waited, listening to their merry-making and smelling their food. I recalled the Andersen tale, but I couldn’t even risk lighting a flame. I knew I wouldn’t survive the night if I stayed out, this being the North Atlantic in winter, icebergs drifting by and most of the decks covered in a thin layer of ice from frozen spray. But I couldn’t risk them finding and reporting me, either.”

John reached for his hands again and squeezed them. “What did you do?”

“Kept out of the wind, huddled into the blankets I had stolen and tried to keep awake long enough to slip inside at the first opportunity.” He swallowed. “I gazed at my mobile until the battery ran out. When last I’d had internet access – I didn’t dare hack into the ship’s wifi –, I had visited your blog and downloaded your photograph and some of the case descriptions. Sentimental, and dangerous, too, should anybody find the phone. But that night, staring at your picture and reading about our adventures kept me alive, I guess. You see, unlike the match girl, I knew I mustn’t surrender to sleep if I wanted to maintain the slightest chance to ever seeing you again. And I didn’t. I contracted pneumonia, though, almost lost some toes, and my fingers have been very sensitive to cold ever since.”

John drew a deep breath, swallowing round the lump in his throat. “I visited your grave on Christmas Eve, thought about our last Christmas together and how messed up that had been with the Woman, and Jeanette ditching me, and you insulting Molly, and how much I missed your complaints about Christmas decorations and criminals taking the holidays off. How much I missed you, period. I also reread some of my blog entries that night, gazed at the few pictures of you I had, mostly press shots. Greg had invited me to join him and some of the Yarders for a pub quiz, but I didn’t want to see anybody that night.”

Silence fell between them, the only sounds being the soft murmur of people in the main crypt and the clink of dishes and cutlery. John gently rubbed Sherlock’s hands once more. They were warm now. Sherlock sighed. Looking up from the candle and their joined hands, John saw that he had closed his eyes. Leaning forward, John reached up with one hand to cup his cheek gently and half rising from his seat, he kissed the corner of Sherlock’s mouth.

“Next Christmas will be better,” John promised when he sat down again.

Sherlock gazed at him, his mouth twitching into a faint smile. “As long as I don’t have to wear the antlers, I’m sure it will.”

John grinned, glad that the sorrowful mood was lifting. “Oh, but I insist. I think we could both do with some laughter to account for last year’s misery. If you do, I promise to wear the most ridiculous jumper you can find.”

Mischief sparked in Sherlock’s eyes. “Is that a challenge? You do know that I have connections.”

“Well, bring them on, then. Can’t be worse than that cat jumper I saw on the internet.”

Sherlock smirked. “You have no idea, my friend.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

They had almost finished their meals and John was about to fetch another round of tea to chase down the rest of their puddings when Sherlock’s phone rang. He frowned as he withdrew it from his jacket, perhaps expecting another call from his brother, but his expression cleared when he recognised the number and answered it.

Curious, John waited. Sherlock noticed and switched the phone to speaker.

“Hi Sherlock, this is Molly.” She sounded excited and slightly nervous.

“I am aware,” returned Sherlock evenly and John rolled his eyes. “Are you calling because of the flower case?”

“Ah, no. I gave most of the flowers to hospital staff and patients. They thank you. No, it’s something else. I was wondering … but you’re on a date with John, aren’t you? Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I can call again later.”

“Out with it, Molly, what is it? Never mind about the _date_.”

“Ah, okay, sorry again. It’s just … you remember I was analysing stomach samples for a friend today and … well, something strange has come up. Something interesting. Might even turn out to be a case. Murder. Double murder, and an attempted one, too.”

John saw how Sherlock sat up straighter, his slightly bored and impatient expression suddenly alert. _The fish has caught the hook. Oh, Molly knows very well how to play Sherlock Holmes, more than she is aware_ , John thought with a faint smile.

“Katie – my friend – and I would really appreciate if you could have a look and perhaps offer your opinion,” Molly went on. “If you’re not too busy, that is. And if John doesn’t mind. We really don’t want to bother you, but —“

“Are you still at Bart’s?” Sherlock interrupted her.

“Yes. I’m meeting Katie here in half an hour. She has to catch her train back to Woodbridge from Liverpool Street at eight so there isn’t much time. But you really don’t have to come if you’re busy. It was just an idea and —”

“We’ll be there,” Sherlock cut her off again and terminated the conversation.

John raised his eyebrows. “Guess we’ll skip the second tea, then. What about the concert? It starts at seven.”

Sherlock gazed up at him incredulously. “Double murder, John. As much as I enjoy early Baroque music, when the Work calls, who am I to refuse?” His expression turned thoughtful as he mustered John. “Unless you insist on musical entertainment tonight.”

Shaking his head, John grinned broadly. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’d have to tie you up to keep you from dashing to a crime scene, so how on earth can I expect you to sit through a concert. Come on, let’s be off. You can always play for me tonight if you’re in the mood, and we’ll have our music. Besides, I’m also curious about this case. Molly seemed pretty excited.”

Sherlock ate another large spoonful of his pudding which caused John to marvel since technically he was on another case already, then wiped his mouth and stood. Arranging his scarf and the collar of his coat he cast a last glance at their now abandoned table. “Well, at least we had the candle,” he stated before turning on his heels and rushing towards the exit.

Digging the two tickets out of his suit jacket’s inner pocket, on their way out he pressed them into the hands of an elderly couple queuing at the box office. John didn’t manage to catch their reaction as he dashed up the stairs behind his consulting detective, spurred on by an impatient “Come on, John!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Artwork again: "[Someone's been generous](http://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/71105475263/someones-been-generous-illustration-and)" and "[Next Christmas will be better](http://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/73507474068/next-christmas-will-be-better-a-second)".


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally an update. Sorry again for the delay. Real life continues to be busy and will do so for the foreseeable future. Still, the next chapter is mostly written, meaning there hopefully won't be another longish spell between posts. 
> 
> Since by now Series 3 has aired this story and the entire Over/Under-verse is officially an AU, which gives me the freedom to stick to my original plan concerning Sherlock's familial background. The next chapter should shed some light on that. 
> 
> I hope you'll bear with me despite the deviations from canon. Thanks again for your feedback. It's greatly appreciated.

“Which story did you like best?” asked Sherlock suddenly. They were in a taxi moving eastward on the Strand, and had both been sitting gazing out of the windows for some time without speaking.

“Hm?” made John, torn out of his musings.

“Of the fairy-tales by Wilhelm Hauff,” clarified Sherlock. “Which was your favourite?”

John turned to him. “Didn’t know you were familiar with them.”

“I read them when I had sufficient command of German to understand the somewhat antiquated language, and like you, I preferred the stories to those by Grimm and Andersen. My maternal grandmother gave me an illustrated copy of the Hauff tales for my ninth birthday. I remember liking the illustrations in particular. They were from the 1930s, I think, elaborate, historically correct for the most part where they depicted costumes, and actually rather dark, even scary, more like Rackham in style than Beatrix Potter.”

John smiled, wondering secretly why Sherlock seemed to have such a profound knowledge of children’s books illustrators. “Should have known you read them in the original version. Mine wasn’t illustrated. Do you still keep yours?”

“Yes. But you haven’t answered my question.”

“Oh, right.” John though for a moment and then shrugged. “I honestly don’t remember which one I liked best. Haven’t read them in ages. But I recall I always liked the one about the boy who gets turned into a dwarf for insulting a witch and becomes a master cook at her place. I loved reading that one because of the vivid descriptions of food. And the one about the ghost ship, that was brilliant, too.”

Sherlock smiled fondly, causing John to grin. “Knew you liked that one, too. Not quite pirates, but close, eh? Which was your favourite, then?”

“ _The Cold Heart_ ,” replied Sherlock. John nodded, recalling the story. It had made an impression on him as a child as well, particularly the atmospheric descriptions of the Black Forest and the scariness of its ghosts and spirits.

“Ah yes, that one quite freaked me out, actually. Made me wonder how the protagonist was able to live once he’d exchanged his heart for one made of stone, all for fortune and glory.”

“Well, he wasn’t, was he?” Sherlock said quietly. “Not fully, at least.”

“True,” mused John. Glancing at Sherlock who was gazing at the brightly lit shop windows and people on the pavement rushing past. Unbidden Mycroft’s words, uttered what seemed like a lifetime ago on a rainy day, came to his mind: _what might we deduce about his heart?_ He still wasn’t sure – as if one could ever be with Sherlock Holmes –, but in the past months he had been granted some glimpses into the deep well of emotion that was contained behind his friend’s often cold and arrogant façade. There was no stone in Sherlock’s chest, so much was certain.

“Well, he learned his lesson in the end, didn’t he?” John stated, aware of the double meaning of his words.

Sherlock didn’t react, although John was sure he had heard his words. “Have you ever been to the Black Forest?” he asked instead to lead the conversation onto less dangerous ground. “I recall you mentioning you spent some time in Germany during your university days.”

Sherlock stirred and half turned to him. “I passed through the mountains on my way to a well-known fluorite mine at Oberwolfach. The institute at Heidelberg I was associated with had a research project going concerning the formation of secondary and tertiary minerals on the dumps of this particular mine. I didn’t pay much attention to the countryside, though. And I certainly didn’t see the Glassman or Dutch Michael.”

John nodded, smiling. “Well, guess that was for the best. Wonder what kind of deal you’d have struck with them.”

“I wasn’t born on a Sunday, John,” remarked Sherlock, also smiling faintly. “So I’d only been able to strike a deal with Dutch Michael. And I think we both agree that this wouldn’t have been a good one.”

“No indeed. Anyway, what about this potential case Molly mentioned? Sounds weird that the police doesn’t seem to be involved if it’s indeed murder, and that moreover she was working on it in her free time.”

“It’s too early to form theories due to the lack of data,” Sherlock reminded him. John thought he looked intrigued nevertheless.

 

**- <o>-**

 

They found Molly and her friend in Molly’s office, half hidden by the large arrangement of amaryllis Molly had created in a glass beaker. It was taking up more than half of her desk. Both women were staring at a computer monitor. John knocked on the door, but only after Sherlock had already entered.

“Oh hi, Sherlock, John,” Molly greeted them, rising from her chair. “Glad you could make it, and sorry again for interrupting your ... um ... date. This is Katie – Katherine Bolton – a friend from uni.”

The other woman had risen, too. She was of Molly’s height but stronger in build indicating physical labour or some sport that caused pronounced musculature in the arms and shoulders. Her skin was dark and her curly black hair was drawn back in a simple braid. She wasn’t wearing any make-up John could see, but a pair of intricately shaped silver earrings with insets of millefiori-glass. Her clothes were plain and functional: jeans, a navy jumper which very much looked like the actual ones worn by naval officers with its shoulder- and elbow patches, and leather hiking boots.

As Katie walked round the desk to shake their hands, John cast a warning glance at Sherlock who had studied her from head to toe. John hoped that the inevitable deduction was going to be gentle.

“Pleased to meet you,” said Katie, her handshake firm. John noticed her fingers were calloused. “Molly has told me a lot about you, and I’ve had a look at your website and your blog, so I fear I’m at a bit of an advantage.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” rumbled Sherlock. Molly gave John a slightly worried glance. He took a step closer to Sherlock, ready to intervene should it become necessary.

To John’s surprise Katie drew herself up slightly and looked Sherlock right in the eye. “Well, then, let’s hear it,” she challenged him, looking more amused than worried. John hoped she wasn’t going to experience a nasty surprise.

Sherlock inclined his head slightly. “You and Molly shared some classes at university before you dropped out due to financial issues resulting from a family crisis. Originally you wanted to become a veterinarian, but being forced to relocate to Suffolk to look after a sick family member caused you to pursue an alternative career, albeit one that still involves animals, particularly horses. You’re a farrier, but you also work as a black- and silversmith specialising in the creation of replicas of historical and archaeological artefacts, mainly early medieval – Viking and Anglo-Saxon, judging from the style of your belt buckle and your earrings. You’re involved with reenactment groups in your local area – Suffolk near Sutton Hoo, I wager – and have just returned from a visit to the British Museum where you had a meeting with the curator concerning some replicas for their renovated Early European exhibition. There is a child you look after – girl, early teens – but she’s not your daughter but that of your partner.”

He cocked his head in the opposite direction, his eyes narrowing as he took in more details, his eyes darting to the desk where a mobile phone lay before they scanned her torso again.

“Your deceased partner,” he corrected himself. “He died fairly recently and unexpectedly in some kind of accident, most likely linked to his occupation – something in the navy but not a common sailor or naval officer. Your relationship with our adopted daughter is tense at the moment – she hasn’t replied to your whatsapp messages yet and you sent another one the very moment we entered. The stomach samples you brought Molly for an analysis are those of an animal. Balance of probability suggests a horse, given your profession. That’s what was ‘murdered’, if murder it was of which you, at least, are convinced. Now, the question is why you would be interested in finding out about what caused this animal’s untimely demise. It could have been your own, but it’s more probable it was the horse of one of your clients. But why would you get involved – unless you’ve befriended the owner, or are trying to befriend them. Ah, or this is in fact about your child. The animal was beloved to her, and given your tense relationship at the moment you’re trying to remedy that by showing interest in a matter that’s important to her.”

He folded his hands behind his back and straightened. Katie stared at him for a moment, then she shook her head and smiled. “Molly didn’t exaggerate – well, at least she didn’t when it comes to your deductive skills. She might have when it comes to rudeness. That was actually quite mild.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Oh, what did I miss?” he asked with genuine interest.

Katie shrugged and grinned. “Well, you could have mentioned my speeding tickets or the fact that I sing really off key in the shower.”

“I was saving those for later,” countered Sherlock, his mouth twitching into a grin as well.

“The rest was spot on” she said. “I think I can piece together where you got most of your clues from – my mobile lying on the table still switched on, the computer screen showing my latest replicas, the traces of horse muck on my shoes. Guess I faintly smell of horse, too. And my hands must speak very clearly of my profession. How did you know about my partner, though?”

“Your jumper. It used to be a man’s but you shortened the sleeves and altered the shoulders slightly to fit you. You also removed the epaulets. The stitching was done by hand and is slightly uneven, so it’s unlikely you bought the garment like this. You could of course be simply sharing with your partner, but the changes are irreversible. Ergo, your partner served in the navy but isn’t around any longer to wear his jumper.”

“She could have gotten the garment from Camden market,” put in John. “They sell second hand navy and army clothes there. Remember, you tried to persuade me to get a grey one from the RAF when we were there for a case. Can’t imagine why, since you always ridicule my jumpers. Or was it the epaulets?”

He noted Molly and Katie exchange a glance and how Sherlock blushed very faintly.

“Most of your jumpers are ridiculous, John,” Sherlock said haughtily. “And you are right, Katie could have gotten this one from any second hand outlet. But her reaction to my initial statement indicates she didn’t. There are also the dog tags she wears around her neck. They are slightly outlined under her jumper, with what could be a ring or even two attached to the chain as well. There is no indication Mrs. Bolton served in the armed forces herself, so given the fact she’s still wearing them indicates some sentimental connection.” 

He bent his eyes on Katie’s hands.

“You’re not wearing a wedding ring nor do your fingers show any indication that you took it off recently – it must be a hindrance in your profession, anyway – suggesting that both are on the chain. “

Katie nodded, a shadow of grief moving over her features. “Andrew was a naval engineer – started out as an officer and then specialised. Were together for seven years, and married for three. He was killed last year in an accident during a routine exercise up in the Outer Hebrides. Emma is his daughter from an earlier relationship. Her mother lives in America but Emma hasn’t had contact with her ever since she was four. Her mother had a parental responsibility agreement with Andrew naming him Emma’s custodian, which has now been transferred to me because she wanted to stay here and not move to the US to a woman she barely remembers.

“But you’re right,” she gazed at Sherlock. “Things between us are tense at the moment. Andrew’s death hit her badly – both of us, in fact. She’s withdrawn from me, spends most of her time in her room or with our neighbours’ horses. That, in fact, is the one thing that seems to be keeping us together at the moment: our mutual love for horses. It’s what made us bond in the first place, you see. So when two of our neighbours’ animals died, one shortly after another, Emma was deeply upset. One had been her favourite and she had helped groom it and prepare it for shows for a while now, and was even present when that particular mare’s latest foal was born this spring. Our neighbours breed Suffolk Punches, you must know. They have a considerably large farm and stud, and they also train the horses to pull vehicles and work the fields. Sometimes they’re used for period films or commercials, or educational material. They also have some Icelandic horses for riding and produce cider from ecologically grown apples. Emma spends most of her free time at their place and loves the animals dearly. She wants to be a vet some day – well, that’s her emergency plan anyway if being named the first person to fly to Mars doesn’t work out. So you can imagine her and mine and our neighbours’ shock when in the span of about a month two of their most valuable Punches – their stallion and the prize mare – were found dead in the stables.”

“What makes you think there was something fishy about the deaths?” enquired John. “Did the horses show any external injuries?”

“No, nothing. That’s what alarmed me in the first place. You sometimes hear of some sick bastard stabbing horses, but on Rædwald’s – the stallion’s – body nothing of that kind was found, no injuries, nothing. He was simply found dead in the morning, collapsed in his stall. He’d been suffering from a colic a few days previous, but he’d been treated and seemed to be recovering. Still, Dr. Hensley the local vet suggested that was what killed him. What struck me as odd even then, though, was the fact he’d had colic in the first place.”

“Isn’t that a common ailment with horses?” asked Sherlock.

“With some breeds, yes, but the Punches are a very hardy one. They don’t get sick easily, and can cope with most kinds of fodder.”

“Was there an autopsy?” asked Molly who had stepped round her desk and joined the three in the middle of the room.

“Blood samples were taken, and there was a search for injuries, even hidden ones, and of course he was screened for any diseases, particularly those that could be passed on to the other animals, but that was it as far as I know. They didn’t find anything out of the ordinary. I wasn’t present when they found the horse. Emma told me later. It was quite an act to remove him. Punchies are large, and Rædwald measured well over seventeen hands and weighed around two thousand pounds. Not an easy body to shift.”

“Did they take a stomach sample back then?” asked Sherlock.

“Yes,” said Katie. “He was taken by the local fallen stock removal firm – there’s one in Melton. The owners insisted his stomach contents be checked. Dr. Hensley analysed the sample, but … well ....”

“You said he’s a moron,” put in Molly.

Katie shrugged. “Well, he’s rather old and very set in his ways, and not exactly interested in changing them or his attitude. We don’t get on well, to say the least, because he thinks that I’m trying to usurp his authority just because I know more about horses and their treatments. Which is a fact. But it’s also a fact that I’m a woman, and black, and, well, guess you get the idea. That’s why I came here this time, to ask a real professional.”

She gave Molly a smile.

“But anyway, yes, he analysed Rædwald’s sample, and found traces of water dropwort—”

“ _Oenanthe crocata_ ,” added Molly, reading from the report on her desk.

“Right, in the stomach contents. Even though livestock may eat the leaves and flowers of this plant without danger, the roots are highly poisonous, containing oenanthotoxin. About one root usually suffices to kill a cow – or a horse for that matter, even a large one like Rædwald. That’s why Hensley recognised the toxin, I guess, as there are a few cases each year of livestock poisoning themselves by eating the roots when they’ve been exposed by strong rains or drainage works.”

“Could the toxin have been in the hay?” mused John. “You said the stallion died about a month ago, so I guess the animals weren’t kept out at pasture at this time of year.”

“It’s possible, but unlikely,” answered Katie. “The roots aren’t usually pulled up during haymaking. And yes, the Punches are kept in the stables in autumn and winter, so no danger of accidentally munching on a root, either. Only the Icelandic horses are kept outside all year round, and none of them has fallen ill or died. Still, after Rædwald perished – which was a blow to the Millers, emotionally, and financially, too, as he was their main stud – not much more was done. It was chalked up as a sad but isolated incident. The insurance paid some of the damage, and the matter was dropped. And then five days ago Ælfgifu, their most valuable mare, was found dead, too. Same thing: all fine in the evening, no signs of colic or else, no injuries, no strange behaviour. And then Mrs. Miller finds her dead in her stall next morning.”

“And let me guess,” said Sherlock, “she died of the same toxin.”

“Interestingly, not quite,” fell in Molly, indicating her report. “There were traces of it, too, but not necessarily a lethal dose. This time it was a rather obscure mixture of toxins that killed her such as can be found in privet, yew and rhododendron.”

Katie nodded. “The report reads as if someone has fed their garden clippings to the poor horse. Now, things like privet they don’t usually eat because of the smell, but if it’s chopped up small enough and mixed with something sweet or tasty – like yew berries, perhaps, which are very sugary—”

“But yew berries aren’t poisonous,” put in Sherlock.

“That’s right, the flesh isn’t, only the seed,” said Molly. “But those I found in the stomach, some ground up either beforehand or by the horse’s teeth, in combination with all that other poisonous stuff. You can read the report.” She handed it to him.

“Has someone had a look at the fodder?” asked Sherlock, his eyes darting over the clipboard. “In both cases? If the toxins were indeed fed to the animals as seems likely based on the evidence we have, how easy would it have been to mix the respective plants into their fodder, do you reckon?”

Katie shrugged. “Not very difficult, I’d say. A number of people have access to the stables, and in the first case even though there was a search for the root in his stall nothing was found. And as I said, Ælfgifu died five days ago and her stall has been cleaned since. It was thoroughly swept and disinfected immediately after her body’s removal since people couldn’t be sure at that point whether she’d succumbed to a disease that might spread.”

“Would the person who administered the poison be able to stick around unnoticed to make sure the animals ate enough of it to actually die?” mused John, stepping closer to Sherlock and stealing a glance at the report. “If they ... don’t know, prepared some treats and fed them by hand, not many traces would remain that even a thorough search of the stalls could unearth.”

“Yes, this has crossed my mind as well. I have to tell the Millers when I get home tonight,” sighed Katie. “And have a long talk with Emma. I think the Millers should call the police, but the local constabulary … well, I’m not sure they can do much.”

“Yes,” said Sherlock, frowning as his eyes flew over the report for a second time. “I doubt that, too. Still, they must be informed, if only to make sure the owners can claim insurance in the second case as well. An official investigation might also discourage someone from trying a third time. The two deaths might be coincidence, but I severely doubt it. Someone has taken great care to make them look like accidents, but there is systematic knowledge behind them, and quite ruthless planning.”

“But why would somebody kill these horses?” asked John.

“Well, as Katie said, killing off a stud’s only stallion and their best mare would damage the owners, despite successful insurance claims. Perhaps it’s a professional competitor, perhaps it’s some kind of personal vendetta. You know the owners well, I take it?” Sherlock asked Katie.

“We’re on friendly terms, yes. Emma sometimes babysits their two children. They’re very kind, hard-working people. I can’t think of anybody wanting to damage them professionally, much less personally. There’s the Suffolk Punch Trust over at Hollesley that could be termed a professional competitor. They’re a much larger farm, but they’re friends with the Millers and both families help each other out with equipment for working the horses. They also swapped stallions last year for a few months. The Suffolk Punches are an endangered species, so most breeders know each other and do their best to work together.”

“Are there any others who don’t get on with the Millers?” enquired John. “Other farmers, relatives, old flames, other neighbours?”

“Not that I’m aware,” shrugged Katie. “There are always people you don’t get on with, I guess, but when I imagine everyone I know in Rendlesham and vicinity I can’t think of anybody with access to the stables who’d a) have reason, b) the knowledge, and c) the opportunity to harm the horses. And there certainly haven’t been any threats.”

“Insurance fraud?” mused Sherlock.

Katie scoffed. “Not likely. The damage is far greater than the benefit, which isn’t even assured in cases like this.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Listen, Sherlock – Sherlock is okay, isn’t it? Mr. Holmes sounds so formal.”

“It’s fine, Katie.”

“Sherlock, I know this case – if case it is – isn’t what you usually investigate. Perhaps it’s not even worth your time and mental energy, but Molly’s been telling me about all those people you helped when the police couldn’t. As I said, I can’t imagine them making much headway here once they’re on the case, and I know there are going to be angry tears tonight when I tell my girl what we’ve found. So … I can’t pay you much, but—”

“That won’t be necessary,” interrupted Sherlock, handing the report back to Molly. “I’ll take the case. My email address is on my website, as well as my mobile number. Talk to the owners tonight, and keep me informed about the police investigations once they’ve commenced and you manage to gain information. Ask round if anybody unusual has been seen on the farm. Tell the owners to organise better security for the stables if they haven’t done so already. When you do your rounds – I take it you travel round the villages to look after your clients’ hooves – have a look out for anybody who has clipped their hedges recently. I will come to Suffolk as soon as I can.”

Katie beamed. “Excellent. Thanks a lot. I’ll let the Millers know. They’ll be grateful, too. I told them I’d try and get someone to look into the matter. They’ve been rather disillusioned with Dr. Hensley’s investigation so far.”

“Obviously,” commented Sherlock with a wry smile.

“If it’s convenient for you,” went on Katie, “I’m sure they can accommodate you on their farm as they have rooms they rent out to tourists in summer. Unless you prefer some more exquisite accommodation, of course. There aren’t many hotels or even B&Bs in the vicinity, but I’m sure something suitable could be found over at Woodbridge.”

“No, accommodation on the farm would be convenient and moreover instrumental for he investigation.”

“Will you be coming as well, Dr. Watson?” Katie turned to John.

“John, please. I’d like to, but I have to check at work first. It’s a difficult time of year to take a few days off. Flu season and all that. But yeah, I’d love to come.”

“Sherlock works so much better with him around,” Molly stage-whispered to Katie with a mischievous grin. “And he’s far more tolerable.”

“I heard that, Molly,” said Sherlock mock sternly.

She smiled sweetly. “I know you did. And you know it’s true.”

“I didn’t contradict you, did I?”

“Well, looks like I have to be off in order to get to Liverpool Street and catch my train,” said Katie after a glance at her watch, reaching for her phone and the coat she had deposited on a spare chair. “Thanks again for agreeing to help. It means a lot. I’ll send you whatever new information I get tonight, Sherlock. And I’ll get back to you about the earrings, Molls. It was lovely to chat. You must come over for Christmas this year, and we’ll try to come to London for the Doctor Who anniversary this month.”

She hugged Molly, then shook hands with John and Sherlock. “Email me your fees, okay. I don’t feel comfortable having you work without compensation.”

“I don’t charge for interesting cases,” declared Sherlock. John smiled wryly.

“And this one is?”

“It looks very promising. That said, I might find myself in need of a skilled blacksmith one day.”

Katie smiled. “At your service.” With a wave to Molly she was off.

 

**- <o>-**

 

After Katie’s departure, Molly gave Sherlock a brief update on the Kensington florist case. Apparently Dimmock had apprehended three suspects, the shop’s owner being one of them, the other two members of the London underworld. Molly didn’t know more about the investigation, though, but she thanked Sherlock for the flowers in the name of a couple of patients. He brushed off her gratitude on these people’s behalf with his usual brusqueness, although John thought he looked secretly pleased – even though the flowers hadn’t even been his in the first place. Then again, John reasoned, if the flower shop’s owner was really in on both the murder and the drug smuggling, they deserved to have their goods divided up amongst the ailing.

Checking the time, Molly excused herself.

“Got a date?” asked John, noticing her sudden hurry.

She rolled her eyes.

“No, karate lessons,” commented Sherlock, tying his scarf. “A far more sensible choice of past-time, too.”

“Haha, says he who snogs his boyfriend right in the middle of my morgue,” she countered.

John had to bite his lip to hide a grin as Sherlock’s cheeks flushed scarlet.

“Good one, Molly,” John told her with a wink.

“Yes,” she said, donning her jacket, “I know.”

Sherlock sniffed haughtily and rushed out of the door.

 

**- <o>-**

 

As they exited the hospital John turned right to head down Giltspur Street towards the main road and hopefully a taxi, but Sherlock stopped him with a hand to his shoulder.

“Let’s walk for a bit,” he suggested, nodding in the other direction, towards Smithfield Market.

John shrugged. The evening was cold and windy but still dry, and it wasn’t very late yet. “Okay. You need to think?”

Sherlock rumbled a reply, buttoning his coat and flipping up the collar. John grinned, stuffing his hands in his pockets as they set out.

“Any theories yet about the case?” he enquired as they passed a small group of people lighting candles at William Wallace’s memorial on the northern wall of Bart’s hospital.

Sherlock’s head twitched. John wasn’t sure if he had actually heard him. “Too many variables,” answered the detective, who apparently had heard. “It’s dangerous to construct theories without sufficient information. I need to visit the place, talk to the people Katie mentioned. Pity I can’t see the bodies anymore. But who knows, there might be another in a short while.”

John sighed. “That’d be quite bad for the owners, wouldn’t it? And with the horses being an endangered breed and everything …. I hope there won’t be another killing. And can we even be sure they were murders? I mean, I’ve heard about people killing horses, but like Katie said those were always stabbings, quite bloody and violent. These poisonings ... either they were just unlucky coincidences, or someone has put a lot of effort into them. And if it’s indeed the latter, what purpose does it serve, without threats being uttered, or blackmail or something along the lines? It all sounds very strange to me. Perhaps there really just was something in the hay.”

“That’s why I need to go to Rendlesham,” said Sherlock. “Can you take the rest of the week off?”

“You really need me to come along?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Don’t be daft, John, of course I do.”

John smiled warmly at the statement. “Well, the week has only just started, and I know that some of my colleagues wanted tomorrow off because of Guy Fawkes, so it might not be the best of times. But I’ll ask. Now that Lester’s back it shouldn’t be that much of a problem unless the plague breaks out tomorrow.”

He laughed softly. “Never thought I’d actually be going to Rendlesham one day.”

Sherlock frowned at him. “I noticed that you seemed to recognise the name when it fell. You looked very interested of a sudden, which didn’t seem to be linked to the case. What’s so special about the place?”

John raised both eyebrows. “Seriously? You don’t know that? You?”

Sherlock halted, looking irritated, even mildly put out as he always did when he was confronted with his ignorance in a certain field. “I don’t know _what_? Rendlesham, Anglo-Saxon name signifying the home of a man called Rendel, originally Rendlæsham in Old English, place is associated with the early kings of East Anglia, in particular those linked with the burial at nearby Sutton Hoo. The Miller family appears to be very aware of this historic heritage, judging from the names they bestowed on their horses. Rædwald, Ælfgifu, they’re Anglo-Saxon names. Rædwald is of particular importance as he was supposedly buried at Sutton Hoo.”

John smiled, setting in motion again. “Yes, good, but that’s not what I meant. I’ve heard of Sutton Hoo, of course, and seen some of the stuff they excavated there at the British Museum, but for me the name Rendlesham brings on completely different associations.”

“You didn’t go there on a holiday with your family,” stated Sherlock. John knew why he spoke with so much conviction. He’d been through his childhood photos several times. He watched Sherlock study him, entertained by his friend’s fascination with this new riddle.

“No, I didn’t,” confirmed John. “But when I was a kid I absolutely wanted to go. Well, I guess you were too young to have heard of the matter.”

“Which matter, John?” Sherlock growled in frustration. “Will you tell me or do I have to consult the internet?”

“The Rendlesham Forest Incident,” explained John, smiling broadly. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “Rings an bell?”

“Faintly, yes,” Sherlock muttered thoughtfully. “Something to do with the army, isn’t it? There is an army base near Rendlesham?”

“Yes, there is. And in late December 1980 some of the guys stationed there apparently witnessed an UFO crash-landeding in the forest. It was all hushed up by the MoD, of course, so maybe you should ask your brother about it, but for many ufologists it ranks up there with Roswell.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“I was a kid back then,” John went on. “I had not long before watched _The Empire Strikes Back_ at the cinema and was totally hooked on UFOs and aliens and all things space-related. Tried to talk my parents into going to Suffolk when there was stuff about the sighting on the news and all over the press, but of course we didn’t.”

Sherlock had whipped out his phone and was apparently perusing the Wikipedia entry about the incident. “You don’t seriously believe an UFO landed in rural Suffolk, do you?” he asked.

“‘Course not,” replied John, shaking his head and grinning. “As a kid I did, perhaps. But now ... well, it was a day or two before New Year’s Eve, right, so perhaps the lights the soldiers saw were the odd firework someone set off prior to the date. People here seem to have been celebrating Bonfire Night the entire week, going by the stuff they’ve been blowing up. Also ... don’t know ... isn’t there a lighthouse nearby?”

“Yes, Orford Ness lighthouse is not that far away, the beam certainly visible from Rendlesham on a misty night.”

“Right. And, well ... I know from personal experience the crushing boredom of being on duty when there’s absolutely nothing going on.”

“Well, you didn’t see any UFOs in Afghanistan, did you?”

“No, because between spells of utter boredom we were being shot at or blown up, or both. Aliens are the last thing on your mind in that kind of situation. But I can’t imagine the boys in Suffolk sharing that experience.”

“So you believe it was a hoax?” enquired Sherlock.

“Sure. Not as a kid, I didn’t. I hoped it was indeed aliens. But now ... of course I think it was a hoax of some kind. Most of these sightings can either be explained scientifically or by reasoning, or simply with the fact that people wanted to do something for tourism. Why else do you think aliens always seem to land in these remote spots where there’s nothing going on and barely a trace of intelligent life?”

“Well, they’d be hard pressed to find anything like that wherever they go on this planet, unless they find a beehive, of course.”

John laughed. “Well, it should be fun to visit Rendlesham after all this time. Not sure I want to sniff round the base, though, after what happened at Baskerville.”

Sherlock had the decency to look slightly guilty, before his expression darkened of a sudden as he gazed over John’s shoulder, his face illuminated by the headlights of a car. They had reached Long Lane and were about to cross. John felt Sherlock grab his hand and tug. John let himself be dragged across the road and into the halls Smithfield Market.

As the sweet smell of meat and blood and imminent decay hit John, he tried to slow down to breathe more shallowly, but Sherlock gripped his hand more tightly and rushed on.

“Hey, Sherlock, what’s up, why the sudden hurry?”

“We’re being followed,” came the clipped answer. “If we’re quick, we can shake them off, considering they’ll have to drive round the market. Come on, John.”

“What, followed? By whom?”

“My brother’s minions, who else? Apparently he’s finally fed up with me ignoring him.”

John rolled his eyes. “So they lay in wait for us near the hospital? Or is there really a Secret Service base under that little park next to Bart’s?”

Sherlock scoffed. “You watch too much James Bond, John. Come on, across here. St John’s Street is currently closed for traffic at its southernmost end due to a construction site.”

“You are aware that they could just wait for us at Baker Street, aren’t you? And I bet they’re gonna do just that if they don’t catch us here.”

“Ah, but that would mean for Mycroft to move from his club. It’s more convenient for him to abduct us. Look at this as a chase of sorts, only with roles reversed for once. Should be fun. Don’t you enjoy exercise?”

John snorted. “Lead on, you ridiculous person you.”

 

**– <o>–**

 

As they dashed along narrow alleys and passages, at one point even passing under an arch of ancient masonry at the medieval building of the Order of St. John, always adhering to a fairly northerly course, John wondered whether they’d long shaken off any pursuit and were simply hastening along for the sake of the chase and the exercise and companionship – because this was what they did. And he enjoyed it, like always.

He was not sure Sherlock shared the enjoyment this time, though. His friend’s face was flushed from their quick walk, but his expression was stern, his eyes fixed ahead, cold and unfathomable. John thought he detected a faint trace of sadness, too, and anxiety, even dread. Sherlock had not relinquished his hand, was gripping it tightly as if afraid that John would suddenly vanish. John didn’t mind, but whenever he jogged a few steps to catch up with Sherlock and walk next to him, the detective increased his pace with those long legs of his, causing John to fall behind again and being pulled along.

Thus they flitted through Clerkenwell and approached Islington and busy Pentonville Road, and suddenly John, by then slightly sore and rather out of breath, had enough. Not of the walk in particular, but of Sherlock’s grim secrecy and silent but very obvious suffering. Time for a bit of talking, he decided.

The location for that presented itself when they dashed off Amwell Street and headed north-westward towards King’s Cross. Surrounded by dark-bricked Georgian houses, surreal-looking in the orange glow of the streetlamps was a small park of tall trees fenced in by an evergreen hedge and a wrought-iron fence.

When they passed a gate John gave Sherlock’s hand a sharp tug. “In,” he commanded.

Sherlock seemed to have been completely lost in the thought – it actually amazed John how he had been able to navigate London’s streets so impeccably with his mind far away, but surmised that he must have been on autopilot. Sherlock halted abruptly, staring at John. John used this moment to drag him into the park and shut the gate behind them with a clang.

Sherlock stared at him in utter bewilderment. “John, what is the meaning—”

“That’s what I’d like to hear from you, Sherlock.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The obligatory illustration: "[Come on, John.](http://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/75049263578/come-on-john-happy-birthday-verity-burns)"  
> 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again thanks a lot to all who commented and left kudos. Well, here's my take on the Holmes family now. Warnings for mentions of terminal illness.

Sherlock drew himself up. John thought he could actually see the bristles rising of Sherlock mounting all his defences. John sighed but refused to budge. This wasn’t going to be easy. But it was necessary.  
  
“What’s this all about, Sherlock?”  
  
Sherlock feigned ignorance. In John’s eyes it didn’t become him as it made him seem cold and arrogant. “Clarify,” he demanded haughtily.  
  
“I wish you would,” growled John. “You’ve been out of sorts for days now. That case today, the florist one, you didn’t even show off – much – after you’d solved it. And Katie’s dead horses, honestly, can’t be much more than a three. You don’t usually even concern yourself with animal cases. So why now?”  
  
“I took the kitten case, and investigated Bluebell’s demise,” returned Sherlock haughtily.  
  
“Oh yeah, great, Sherlock Holmes, saviour of critters of all kinds. How could I forget? Seriously, Sherlock, what’s going on? First there’s you taking on a case which if you’re honest only interests you marginally but is certain to get you out of town for a few days, and then we’re dashing through Clerkenwell like a pair of rabbits with the fox on their tails. As much as I enjoy running around London with you, I’d really love to know why. What’s the true reason for your sudden eagerness to outrun your brother’s underlings and your vehement avoidance of him? Yeah, I get you don’t want to meet or talk to him, and yes, you told me it’s because of your parents being arseholes or something. That may all be good and true, but Sherlock, that’s all I have to go on with, and it doesn’t explain why the mere thought of having to deal with them terrifies you so much.”  
  
“It doesn’t terrify me,” returned Sherlock tersely, drawing himself up even more. “As usual, you are overdramatising and romanticising things, John.”  
  
“Yeah, okay, perhaps I am,” John defended himself. “But you know why? Because you give me reason for it. God, Sherlock, why can’t you just tell me what’s been bothering you so much ever since you returned from Switzerland?”  
  
“You want me to talk about it, yes?” asked Sherlock, giving the word a nasty inflection.  
  
“Yes, exactly, that’s what I want.”  
  
“Why? Because talking solves all problems and because moreover you’re so very adept at it? When did you last talk about what bothers you? You worry about your sister all the time, but you never mention it, just look sad and troubled when she’s left another comment on your blog that clearly indicates her inebriated state. And when did you last contact your mother? Have you forgiven her yet for marrying so soon again after your father’s death? It’s only more than twenty years ago.”  
  
“Oh no,” interjected John, wagging a finger at Sherlock. “We’re not having that. You don’t get to lay blame on me for that. I’m shite at talking. Here, I freely admit it. Nothing new there, anyway. I hate it, at least as much as you do if not more. But you know what, despite that I do see when it’s necessary. And it’s now.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Why is it necessary now? Am I getting too much already? My moods, the fact that perhaps I’m not your brilliant detective all the time? That I might get distracted, and what’s worse, my usual control and efficiency compromised – which I loathe myself for, by the way? That I have feelings?”  
  
“No, you twat,” returned John, “it’s necessary because I can see how all this family shit is affecting you. So yeah, I don’t see eye to eye with Harry or my mum, haven’t for ages. And yes, it’s bothering me, especially the knowledge that whatever I do will not make Harry quit the booze, or bring back my dad. And perhaps I’m a fucking coward for not stepping up to my mother and simply forgiving her, or at least giving her a good piece of my mind about her decision and how it bothered me back then. But all that I bear, silently, and it doesn’t change my daily behaviour.”  
  
“Of course it doesn’t,” stated Sherlock sarcastically. “You’re just grumpy and out of sorts and leap at any escapist ‘adventure’ I can offer, soaking up danger like a sponge. It doesn’t affect your daily behaviour at all, certainly. Nice, calm, friendly Dr. Watson, that’s what you are, all the time? No outward signs of frustration or anger or any sentiment, ever? Come on, John, you may be able to fool most people around you, but I know what you are really like under your cuddly jumpers. But while you’re allowed to keep all that to yourself, pretend to keep calm and carry on, you expect me to blab about my family and my … feelings?”  
  
“No. Yes. Damn it.” John let out an exasperated breath. Sherlock’s words had hit very close to the truth. Sherlock did indeed know him well.  
  
“You’re at a big advantage, you see,” John tried to explain. “You knew all about my sister from simply looking at my phone, and most likely know my entire family history by going through my stuff, and from the way I make toast. But I know next to nothing about you. And I’m beginning to think you don’t quite trust me. Do you believe I’ll ... don’t know ... ridicule you for whatever dark secrets hide in your past? Criticise you? Or worse, leave? If so, you’re an idiot.”  
  
“You said you’d respect if I didn’t want to talk about it as long as I didn’t do anything stupid,” Sherlock said petulantly.  
  
“Yeah, I did. And then you blew up our table and worse, tried to smoke again.”  
  
He ran a hand through his hair, realising he was still loosely holding Sherlock’s with the other. Both of them seemed to have been completely unaware of the connection. Carefully, John severed it, immediately regretting it at the flicker of emotion on Sherlock’s face.  
  
Nevertheless he took a step back. “Listen, Sherlock, can’t you just tell me something? Anything? Enough so that I can react appropriately for when Mycroft inevitably kidnaps me for a chat? I don’t want to pry into your past, nor your thoughts or feelings, but like this it’s hurtful for both of us. And I’d much rather learn what is going on from you instead of your brother. So,” he shrugged, “do what you want, I guess.”  
  
Sherlock’s nose dipped a little. His arrogant expression changed ever so slightly to one of interest, even faint wonder. “Why do you really want to know?” he asked, his voice soft. “Why do you care?”  
  
John sighed. “Because I do, okay. Because I’m curious. Because …,” he licked his lips, facing up to Sherlock steadily. “Because you’re my best friend and the most important person in my life. And because … oh damn it, because I love you. Okay, there it is, out now. I talked about my feelings. Happy now?”  
  
John felt the blood rush into his face as he gazed at Sherlock expectantly and with no little trepidation. The other, however, looked completely stricken, his expression frozen. He stayed like this for a long time, only blinking once.  
  
Then Sherlock swallowed. “You love me?” he managed, his voice rough, the words spoken tentatively.  
  
“Er, yeah, looks like it,” said John, smiling wryly and shrugging. “I’m rather amazed you didn’t manage to deduce that from all the cuddling and kissing and stuff we’ve been doing recently.”  
  
Sherlock cleared his throat, his gaze still fixed on John with an unreadable expression. “I … I had theories … but given the lack of comparative experience I thought … I mean, I couldn’t be sure ….” He let out a long breath, and suddenly a smile lifted the corners of his mouth and crinkled the skin round his eyes. “You do know that …,” he waved a hand in a vague gesture.  
  
“I know what?” enquired John gently.  
  
“You know that it … this sentiment, I mean ….”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
 Sherlock sighed. “It’s … mutual, of course.”  
  
John smiled, feeling warm all over. “I didn’t know. I hoped. Had my suspicions, too.”  
  
“Ah. Good. Is that good?”  
  
“Yes, I think it is.”  
  
“Right.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
They gazed at each other and started to chuckle.  
  
“Shouldn’t we be kissing now, after mutual declarations of love?” asked Sherlock. “Romantic convention and all that?”  
  
“Would you like to kiss?” asked John slyly. “And when did you ever heed any conventions, romantic or otherwise?”  
  
“You’re right. Let’s save the kissing for later, and do it properly then,” said Sherlock, sobering up. John thought he looked tense again.  
  
Sherlock drew his coat more tightly around him and buttoned it up. He then dug his hands into the large pockets, and hunching his shoulders, he moved a few paces away from John into the park, surveying the dark trees and ornamental lawn, grey yet orange-tinged in the London night. The illuminated windows of the houses surrounding the small greensward glinted between the bare branches. A siren could be heard faintly in the distance, and the dull roar of traffic on Pentonville Road.  
  
John watched his friend’s dark silhouette outlined faintly as Sherlock stood with his back to him, unmoving. A gust of wind made the dry leaves of some perennials in the flowerbeds along the footpaths rustle. Then Sherlock sighed and his shoulders sagged slightly, and John knew he was going to talk this time. Suddenly he wasn’t sure anymore if he really wanted to hear.  
  
“What Mycroft wants so desperately,” Sherlock began in a low voice, barely audible against the background murmur of London, “is persuade me to go and talk to our parents.”  
  
“Yes, you mentioned that,” said John, stepping a little closer to him. “What’s so bad about it? I can’t imagine you’ve been in contact with them a lot, at least not during all that time we’ve been living together.”  
  
Sherlock turned to him, his eyes glinting faintly in the dim light. “I haven’t been in contact, deliberately so. No doubt Mycroft kept mother informed of my doings, but she never saw reason to contact me directly, not after my decision to not follow in her trade and work as a scientist but to become a consulting detective instead. She expressed her deepest regret and disappointment, and that was that. No need for further communication.”  
  
“That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it?”  
  
Sherlock shrugged. “Perhaps. But that’s how she is. She values intellectual prowess above all else, and the appropriate application and use of it, as she once put it. She thinks I’m wasting my potential. As much as I admire her own work and her dedication to it, even with that kind of intellectual challenge I’d die of boredom, having to spend all my days in a lab or attending conferences or struggle for seeing my research funded. And I don’t really want or need a Nobel Prize to be able to claim my life’s pursuits have been vindicated.”  
  
John nodded thoughtfully. Even though Sherlock had rarely mentioned her before, he had gathered that Dr. Holmes was an influential and highly thought of biochemist with her own laboratory in Switzerland. John thought he could imagine how she must have been like as a mother, trying to forward her research and academic career while juggling two young geniuses like the Holmes brothers. It couldn’t have been easy, at least not in Sherlock’s case. Mycroft he imagined to have been a less challenging child to bring up, good as he was at diplomacy and conforming to people’s expectations while all the while playing his own little game. Sherlock had likely been the difficult, rebellious one.  
  
“What about your father, then?” John asked, aware that he had rarely heard Sherlock mention that side of the family before, which had lead to John assuming that Holmes senior was deceased, or at least had been out of the picture for a long time.  
  
Now Sherlock’s face turned stern, his lips narrowing. He looked both sad and angry of a sudden. “He is the current problem. Or not current. He’s always been the problem, only for almost thirty years he conveniently stayed away and left us in peace.”  
  
“Oh? And now he’s back, you mean.”  
  
Sherlock gave a curt nod. “Now he’s back.”  
  
He turned again, and walking briskly along one of the gravel-strewn pathways, he moved to the other end of the park. Elevated slightly as it was, it commanded a good view over the city, with the BT Tower glowing brightly in the distance. Slowly, John followed him, standing next to him and gazing towards the West.  
  
“I take it there’s a lot of backstory to this,” John said quietly, “and given I know so little about your childhood, perhaps now would be a good time to tell me. You said your father has been away for most of your life and that now, suddenly, he’s back, and obviously desires to talk to you and you refuse ... I’d really like to understand what’s going on, and why.”  
  
“Yes, so do I,” Sherlock agreed softly, visibly steeling himself before he turned to John. John reached for his hand, noticing how cold it was again now that they weren’t walking anymore, and squeezed it reassuringly. Sherlock drew a breath, squeezed back, hid the hand in his coat pocket again, and began.  
  
“My parents never mentioned how they met and why they got involved with each other. I deduced it must have been at university, but I don’t know the exact circumstances. Given their very different personalities, it is difficult to see them fall in love. But then opposites attract, or isn’t this what people want to believe? So perhaps they did indeed love each other back then and did not just become involved out of some practical considerations. So they became associated, married, produced Mycroft, after which I gathered mummy returned to her research and gained a highly competitive and sought after research scholarship for her PhD. Father worked for the MOD, quite high up the ladder, I understand, although by no means in a position comparable to my brother’s nowadays when he occupies himself with this institution. There was some old money from his side of the family, and coming with that certain societal expectations which mummy seemed to have been reluctant to conform to and fulfil, focusing instead of her own career which must have caused some mild irritation amongst the more traditional parts of the Holmes family. Still, she had done her ‘duty’ and produced a son, and afterwards was free to ‘dabble’ in her science, as my paternal grandfather used to call it. So apart from this drawback all was well: Siger Holmes carrying on the family tradition and with an heir to his name, the new offspring a small genius, the wife a bit too independent but at least her name appeared regularly in highly regarded scientific journals. A perfect little family, don’t you think?”  
  
Sherlock’s voice was bitter and sarcastic, his features grim. John shrugged. “Don’t know. Sounds a bit posh and quite messed up to me. But yeah, I can see how people would have seen it as the perfect thing. But I guess it didn’t stay that way. What happened?”  
  
Sherlock frowned. “You know what happened. Seven years after genius Mycroft was spawned, there was another addition to the Holmes family. In retrospect I cannot imagine how that happened because it can’t have been in the interest of either of our parents to produce another child, given how concerned they were with themselves and their respective careers. But there I was.”  
  
“Whoa, Sherlock, wait a moment,” John interrupted, raising a hand. “If you’re going to imply that your parent’s marriage went down the drain because you were born, stop right here. I won’t have you blame yourself for something you had absolutely no influence of – your very existence.”  
  
“Is this my story or yours?” demanded Sherlock. “You’ll understand what I mean if you let me continue. It certainly isn’t my fault that they split up eventually, and much less that they are the way they are. But you’ll understand that I am not entirely blameless for how things developed.”  
  
John sighed, gazing up into his friend’s eyes, dark in the twilight. “Okay, sorry for the interruption. Go on.”  
  
“I arrived at a critical moment in both my parent’s career, or so I deduced later. They didn’t have the time or energy for another child, or else didn’t want to spare them. Mycroft was at school with a nanny and tutor looking after him when he wasn’t, meaning he was fitting in nicely. But a baby doesn’t adhere to a set schedule, nor does a toddler. And I cannot have been an easy child to raise. I wasn’t like my brother who very early on understood what was expected of him, how to make the most of the situation and how to fit in and prosper. I was gifted, yes, brilliantly so, eager and clever and of insatiable intellect. I demanded attention, constantly. All of this wasn’t a problem per se. On the contrary, if anything my parents were proud they had produced yet another little genius. From very early on I received a thorough, stimulating and challenging education to develop my potential to the fullest extent: learning to read and write when other children were still struggling to talk, receiving music lessons starting out with recorder and soon moving on to the violin, being given books and opportunities to draw and paint and travel and ‘connect with nature’ or however you want to call it. My parents really did their utmost to give me the most thorough education, and given how I’d always loathed and feared spells of ennui and boredom, I appreciated their efforts even as a child, even though most of the care and entertainment of my person was even then delegated to other people. And there was the problem. As I said, I’m not my brother.”  
  
“Yes, you said,” agreed John. “You demanded attention. You still do. Genius needs an audience.”  
  
The corners of Sherlock’s lips creased in a faint smile. “You know me well, John.”  
  
“Yes, I daresay I do – as well as anybody can know you. And knowing you, I think the attention you demanded even as a kid wasn’t the true problem despite your parents’ other interests. I’m sure they were proud of you and you got attention, if perhaps not as much as you desired. No, I think another thing was missing, something you craved even more.”  
  
Sherlock turned to him, an eyebrow raised in challenge but vivid interest displayed on his features. “And what might that have been?” he asked, trying to sound haughty and unaffected but failing. John could tell he was genuinely intrigued and seemed a little apprehensive of John’s reply.  
  
John sighed, and reaching out very gently run his hand down Sherlock’s arm to reassure him. “Affection,” he said with quiet sadness. “That’s what you craved and what, I think, your family failed to provide.”  
  
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “What makes you think that?” he asked, his voice a mixture of interest and annoyance.  
  
John drew himself up slightly. “Because you still do, often unconsciously. It hurts me to imagine how lonely you must have felt most of your life.”  
  
“John,” Sherlock warned, “remember what I told you about pitying me”, but John refused to be daunted by his look.  
  
“You know it’s true. And I think your parents are partly to blame for it. Oh, I’m sure they supported you even if later you didn’t follow in your mother’s footsteps and for some reason were considered a disappointment by your father. I can’t imagine you lacked anything in the material sense, or even when it comes to praise and encouragement and ... how did you call it ... intellectual challenges? I’m certain you had plenty of those. Easy confidence born out of privilege, like your friend Victor. That’s how you seemed to me at our first encounter. I mean, you read it on my blog. You were brought up under the conviction that you’re a proper genius. Which you are. But, Sherlock, how often did your parents just fool around with you? How often did you just play with them for the sake of it, or cuddle? Did you ever weep in front of them after the age of ... don’t know, four? Did they know about the bullying at school or did you keep that from them and tried to resolve it on your own? Did they kiss you good night and stay with you when you were sick? Did they give you The Talk at some point or did you gather that information from books?”  
  
He stopped at Sherlock’s expression. “Is that what parents are supposed to do?” he asked quietly.  
  
John drew a breath and lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “Guess so. Mine did, and even though I didn’t see eye to eye with them on a couple of things, particularly when Harry and I were teenagers, I had a good childhood. A happy one.”  
  
“What makes you think I didn’t?” asked Sherlock testily.  
  
“I don’t think your childhood was unhappy, or worse, that you suffered abuse of some kind. I just believe – and I’d love for you to contradict me – I believe that it was lacking in the affection department. That goes for your brother as well. Have you ever hugged him?”  
  
Sherlock’s eyebrows shot up. “You know him. Can you imagine hugging him? If anything his dratted umbrella would get in the way. And when did you last hug your sister?”  
  
John sighed. “Sherlock, I don’t want this to end in a debate about who has the most messed up sibling. We’d be at it all night.”  
  
The flash of a smile showed briefly on Sherlock’s features before drawing a breath and and looking out over the city again, he nodded. “You’re right. There was a distinct lack of physical affection. Even the nanny and tutors I had didn’t go for it. I didn’t really notice it as a child because I had little comparison with what was considered ‘normal’ other than what I gathered from books and the occasional television program. My parents weren’t very demonstrative in that department, even with each other, although it later transpired that my father was in fact a very passionate, emotional man. He did read stories to me when I was little and he could spare the time, and mummy took me outside to study flora and fauna, and before he went to Harrow, Mycroft spent a lot of time with me. We did play, at times, and not just chess or ‘deductions’ but also with Legos, or he read to me. We even watched telly together. I missed him when he was gone, and since I didn’t get on well with the other children at school, being somewhat younger than those in my year and small and skinny yet intellectually their superior, I was on my own for long periods of time. This was somewhat alleviated during the summer months. We sometimes went abroad, and not always because mummy was lecturing somewhere or father attending an international conference. When I was small we went on ordinary holidays, too, spending a week at the seaside or in the Lake District. But when I was old enough to attend school, I mostly spent summer break at my maternal grandmother’s house in Sussex, near the coast. Grandfather had died the year I was born. Grandmother had a new partner, Edward, a retired palaeontologist, and I remember walking the beach under the chalk cliffs with him looking for fossils. I spent a lot of time in the woodlands, too, collecting and categorising poisonous plants and looking for rare species of insects and reptiles.”  
  
John smiled to himself as he studied his friend’s dimly lit profile and the fond, slightly wistful expression. Even though he’d not seen any pictures of Sherlock as a child so far, a mental image of a small, skinny, tousle-haired boy emerged wearing ratty corduroy trousers and a striped jumper and carrying a bag full of things he had found on the beach or out on the chalk downs or in the woods: an adventurer and explorer, and despite his extraordinary intelligence an ordinary kid in his interests. In fact, as John had noticed before, prolonged exposure to the outdoors often caused Sherlock to revert back to this adventurous, nature-loving boy, despite his claims to the contrary.  
  
“It all went pear-shaped when I was nine,” Sherlock said into the companionable silence that had fallen between them. “There were discussions about sending me to Harrow a year early. I didn’t want to go because I associated the place with Mycroft going away. Mummy was against it, too. I had noticed that she and father had drifted apart increasingly, and that there were more open conflicts – always polite, always controlled in conduct, but all the sharper and more cutting in their choices of words. I was glad for every moment I was allowed to spend at granny’s, but even there things weren’t like they had been. She was increasingly unwell. She tried to hide it from Edward and me, but, well, I deduced more than I should have. When I confronted my parents and particularly mother with what I had found out, she eventually told me that granny had cancer and was not expected to live until Christmas. And she was right. Granny passed away in the autumn of that year, her health reclining rapidly despite additional surgery and radio- and chemotherapy. I was assured everything had been tried to help her, and later to at least alleviate her suffering, but part of me always thought more could have been done. Mummy clearly thought so as well, given that her research lies in that direction. Her mother’s death was a severe blow to her, but being the way she is she attempted to cope on her own, and expected everybody else to do so, too.”  
  
He swallowed. John reached out and squeezed his shoulder, and Sherlock unconsciously leaned into the touch for a moment before straightening. He closed his eyes briefly and drew a deep breath.  
  
“I didn’t. I didn’t cope. I was terribly upset, unable to concentrate, not knowing how to distract myself from the grief. My grades at school suffered severely. I was no longer a model student but wild and moody, contrary with the teachers and the other children. I think I spent more time in the Headmistress’ office than in the classroom because of fights I’d been involved in or the fact that I’d disappeared from class to flee to the chemistry lab or the library. Official diagnoses undertaken a little later covered everything from ADHD – still a new thing in the mid-1980s – to forms of autism. I barely avoided being dosed with Ritalin. My parents weren’t any help, either. Mother was too distraught and compromised by her own grief as well as a critical phase of her work which caused her to spend little time at home, and father didn’t know how to deal with either of us, and sought and found distraction elsewhere – which, in fact, he had done for a while prior to the incident. Mycroft was away at school.”  
  
“Whoa, do you mean your father had an affair?”  
  
Sherlock nodded without looking at John. “Yes. The daughter of one of his colleagues. She was of age, so no scandal there, but still considerably younger than he. I don’t know whether there was any ‘love’ involved” – he spoke the word with disdain – “but certainly she provided some distraction and perhaps even solace where his wife could or would not.”  
  
“Married to her work, eh, you mum?”  
  
Sherlock made a non-committal gesture. “She would certainly never put it that way, but yes. She has her priorities, and her husband has never been the highest, a fact I’m sure he resented secretly. Male authority thwarted and all that crap. But mummy knew of his affair, tolerated and in a way even encouraged it, I am now certain. It worked well for them, you see. Both got what they needed out of their relationship, and the third party was well served, too, I’ve come to believe.”  
  
John frowned. “That may be, but what did you and Mycroft think of the ... arrangement?”  
  
“Oh, my brother was okay with it, or at least he pretended to be.”  
  
“And you?”  
  
Sherlock’s face tightened. “I wasn’t told. They kept it from me.”  
  
John whistled softly through his teeth. He thought he knew how things had developed, and his heart ached for Sherlock. One of his remarks about what had happened with Victor Trevor’s father came to John’s mind, Sherlock mentioning that he should have known better than to publicly state his deductions.  
  
“But you found out, didn’t you?”  
  
Sherlock smiled grimly. “Yes. At Christmas. There was a big dinner, family and friends over and occupying the house. I hated it. Hated my Holmes cousins teasing me and wreaking havoc with my experiments, hating mummy looking harrowed and sad, hating how smug and distant Mycroft had become after having been made head boy for the third year running, hating the fact granny wasn’t there anymore and Edward hadn’t even been invited, hating having to dress up, having to pretend everything was all right when clearly it wasn’t. I tried to lock myself in my room, and when this didn’t work and they dragged me down to dinner I escaped into the library. There I overheard a phone-call between father and his lover. It only confirmed what I had suspected for some time. And that day, I could no longer bear swallowing my upset like Holmeses were supposed to do. So when my aunt came to fetch me to play carols on the violin because little Sherlock, oh, he’s so gifted, well, I took the instrument, went out to them, and made some ear-splitting racket followed by a little speech in which I mercilessly deduced my immediate family and relatives and those ‘friends’ as were present, spilling all the petty little secrets they’d tried to hide from each other behind their respectable façades. I ended with confronting my father with his extramarital activities.”  
  
“Oh shit,” John expressed his feelings, running a hand through his hair. “No wonder you don’t remember Christmas dinners fondly.”  
  
Sherlock smiled wryly. “Actually, for a moment it was quite entertaining, seeing them all sit in utter shock before beginning to squabble amongst themselves and then blame my parents for not keeping me in check. I don’t know what happened afterwards because I ran away, out into the garden. I’d have stayed out there all night but Mycroft found me. Thankfully, he didn’t force me to go back immediately. He brought me a blanket and some hot chocolate and we sat in the greenhouse without speaking until he sighed and said that things were going to change now and that I shouldn’t have done what I had because sometimes it was better to just keep one’s thoughts to oneself. We argued for a while, and then ... actually I think I cried a little, mostly for granny because I hadn’t done that before. I didn’t know then what he had meant by things changing. I learned soon enough, though.”  
  
“Don’t tell me your parents blamed you for the mess,” John stated forcefully.  
  
“Well, they blamed each other, mostly, but part of that blame lay in not realising sooner that their second-born had “serious problems” and needed more looking after (and shutting up). Therapy was recommended, the plans for sending me off to Harrow put on ice because my grades really didn’t qualify me for a grant.”  
  
“A grant?” asked John.  
  
“Yes, of course. You don’t think my parents were rich enough to afford to pay exorbitant school fees for both their sons at the same time, do you? Both had sufficient incomes and we were certainly considered well off, but we weren’t rich. My paternal grandparents were, but they hadn’t approved of my father’s choice of spouse and withdrawn their support early on, and they were certainly not going to pay for my schooling if my grades didn’t justify it.”  
  
Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at John’s frown. “Doesn’t quite fit into your image of my background, does it?”  
  
John huffed and gave him a wry smile. “Not really. I always thought of you and your family as quite posh, judging from the way you and Mycroft dress and talk and your generally lax attitude concerning financial matters. Where did you live as a child, anyway?”  
  
“Kensington. Not on a country estate as you may have imagined. The house had been owned by my father’s family for a long time. It’s Mycroft’s now.”  
  
“I see. What happened after the big reveal?”  
  
Sherlock sighed, his expression stern again. “All those differences and conflicts smouldering between my parents were stirred into flames. What remained of their marriage burned away. Their careful arrangement was no longer feasible to uphold in public, now that the truth was out. I remained at my old school for another year of utter boredom and was dragged from one therapist to the next, each eager to stick a label onto me, some of which were convenient to retain to shut people up.”  
  
“Like high-functioning sociopath?”  
  
“Yes. People stop asking stupid questions if you give them a term like this. They leave you in peace without trying to look behind the façade. Well, most of them, anyway,” he added, his eyes straying to John, his expression warm for a moment before he assumed a more detached countenance again.  
  
“For father the changes were most severe,” Sherlock went on. “He was forced to resign his position, the circumstances of his affair damaging his reputation in the eyes of his peers beyond repair – the hypocrites, as if most of them didn’t have similar ‘arrangements’ and shady dealings. He wanted to start anew elsewhere, and when the divorce was finalised, he did. And I was glad, because yes, he had blamed me for not keeping my knowledge to myself like Mycroft had done all this time. He didn’t understand, didn’t want to understand my reasons. And I didn’t understand his, not back then. We didn’t part on good terms. In fact, I had come to resent him and thought he resented me. So I was actually glad when finally he was gone. Mycroft was back at school for his final year and it was just mummy and I. But she had changed, too. The entire matter had deeply upset her even though she didn’t admit it back then, and in combination with the residual grief for her own mother, her worries about me, the delay in her work because of all of that and the fact that to support us she had to work for the pharma-industry she resented instead of pursuing her own research – well, you can imagine things didn’t run smoothly between us. I was actually relieved when finally they did cart me off to Harrow. Home had become too cold and oppressive, and too fraught with memories.”  
  
“What did your father do?”  
  
“He went abroad, spent time in Asia, set up a company. Mycroft kept tabs on him, of course, even remained in contact if only surficially. I didn’t hear from him again, only saw him briefly when Mycroft graduated from university. He was at the ceremony in Oxford, and I saw him talk to my brother, but he didn’t deign to speak with me and I appreciated that.”  
  
“You mean that basically you haven’t heard from him for almost thirty years because neither of you ever made an effort to get back in touch?” asked John incredulously.  
  
“Basically, yes. And believe me, it’s been for the best.”  
  
“No, Sherlock, I don’t think it has,” John argued sternly. “That’s what’s been bothering you so much, isn’t it? For some reason, after all this time, your father has decided he wants to talk to you, right? And to make sure you’ll be there, your brother and perhaps also your mum arranged it, dragged you to Switzerland and then ... did you actually see him there? Or did you find out the reason for the summons and fled? Don’t you think it’s time to ... don’t know ... make peace?”  
  
“No,” Sherlock snapped vehemently. “No, I don’t. If he wants my forgiveness, he can damn well come here and ask for it. I haven’t needed him in my life for almost three decades, and I certainly don’t need him now. He made very clear what he thought of me back then. I don’t need to hear it again. Or who do you think suggested I needed therapy to ‘cure’ me? He’s wrought enough damage. I’m better off without him – have always been, actually.”  
  
John looked into his eyes, cold and sparkling. He took in the hard line of his mouth, the stiff, haughty way he held his head. He sighed.  
  
“You know, Sherlock, a part of me understands you very well, better than you think. I can imagine what he told you. What you mentioned earlier about you not having been wanted, of your arrival disturbing their happy little family – I’m sure that’s something he at least implied. And I totally get how that must feel, even after all those years. Once you’ve been hurt so deeply by someone, it can be very difficult to forgive. But you see, I’ve learned a bit about forgiveness in the past months.”  
  
Sherlock’s expression shifted ever so slightly. For a moment he looked both touched and guilty. “You think I should meet him?” he asked doubtfully.  
  
“I think you should at least consider it. It’s your decision in the end, of course. But speaking as someone who’s lost his father a long time ago without any chance of speaking to him ever again … well,” he shrugged. “Perhaps you should at least listen to what he’s got to say. If it’s rubbish you can still tell him to piss off.”  
  
“Eloquently put, Dr. Watson,” quipped Sherlock with a faint smile.  
  
“Thanks. How about we eloquently call a cab now and return home where it’s warm. The wind’s getting chilly.”  
  
“Well, it was your idea to drag me in here.”  
  
“Yes. And I don’t regret it. Thanks for telling me all this, Sherlock.”  
  
“I don’t feel particularly better, though,” complained Sherlock as they passed through the iron gate again. “Did all this talking really help you when I was away? The talking you did with Ella, I mean?”  
  
John rolled his eyes. “Well, I had to talk to someone, didn’t I? Not all of us communicate with people who aren’t around.“ He didn’t mention those times he had talked to Sherlock’s headstone. “I bet you talked to me all the time during your exile.”  
  
He had spoken lightly, but swallowed when he saw Sherlock’s expression, the narrowing of his lips at the remainder of months of danger and loneliness.  
  
“You were a patient audience,” said Sherlock quietly.  
  
–<o>–  
  
The taxi ride back to Baker Street was quiet, each of them staring out of their respective windows, although John thought he caught Sherlock’s gaze flickering to him more than once. Neither made any attempt at initiating a conversation. John’s head was still spinning with what Sherlock had disclosed about his family and childhood. John thought that a lot of what he had previously picked up made more sense in this broader context now, while at the same time some of his theories had been bashed.  
  
The cabbie announcing their arrival pulled him out of his thoughts. Uncharacteristically, Sherlock paid the driver while John went ahead to unlock the door. A light could be seen in the upstairs windows, warm and comfortable. Apparently Mrs. Hudson had been round to switch it on as she often did when they were out late so they wouldn’t stumble into a dark flat. Also, it looked she had braved a battle with their capricious fireplace and won, judging from the faint flickers on the ceiling. John silently vowed to get her another box of chocolates soon.  
  
Sherlock seemed to have been lost in contemplation because he approached the door slowly, and once he’d entered he stood in the hallway simply staring ahead, a slight frown creasing the bridge of his nose.  
  
“You all right?” enquired John from the first step.  
  
Sherlock nodded and began unbuttoning his coat and taking off his scarf. He deposited both garments on the bannister, making John wonder if he was planning to go out again later.  
  
Together they ascended the stairs, but when John had reached the landing and was about to open the door to their living room, he felt Sherlock’s hand on his arm. An instant later the rest of consulting detective followed, crowding him against the wall. Sherlock’s eyes were dark. John swallowed at the intensity of his expression.  
  
“Looks like you want your kisses now,” John managed.  
  
A wicked glint in Sherlock’s eyes and a brief flash of teeth from a sharkish smile confirmed his assumption, even before Sherlock’s rough “Yes!” Then his lips captured John’s in a deep, passionate kiss.  
  
Having overcome his surprise, John drew him closer, shifting slightly to better accommodate his body as it pressed against his. A low growl issued from Sherlock as his kissing intensified. One of his legs came up to part John’s while both his hands held the other’s face at the right angle. John kissed back as best he could under the onslaught of Sherlock’s lips and tongue and teeth, trying to regain some control both of the situation and his body’s rather treacherous reactions.  
  
Eventually the idea of breathing lost its inherent boredom and began to rapidly gain appeal. John was about to communicate this to Sherlock when a noise from the living room caused them to terminate the kiss. Someone cleared his throat, before a well known voice sounded disdainfully.  
  
“As much as I hate to interrupt your little … tryst and thus my little brother’s long overdue practical education in sexual matters, there is an urgent issue I must relate to you. Impressive show, Sherlock, thank you, but if you intended to shock me and thus deter me from talking to you tonight, rest assured that I am confronted with far more disturbing displays of lust – and sentiment – on a daily basis. Even you wouldn’t believe what some of our politicians and businesspeople are up to in their spare time. You can return to your … activities in no time, but in both your interests cease them now and join me in the living room.”  
  
With a tap of his umbrella and no doubt a pointed look, he turned and left.  
  
Sherlock drew back a little, his face still very close to John’s. “I have a mind of simply ignoring him,” he muttered breathlessly.  
  
John grinned. “We can go upstairs straight away.”  
  
Sherlock frowned. “What for?”  
  
John stared at him incredulously, then started to laugh. “Seriously?”  
  
“What? What did I say?”  
  
“My bedroom is upstairs.”  
  
“I know.” Then realisation dawned on Sherlock. He blushed violently. “Oh.” He swallowed, biting his lip. “It … I mean … John, I’m not sure …”  
  
“God, Sherlock, you really are an innocent,” said John, kissing the tip of his nose and brushing away some unruly locks of hair from his forehead. “You knew your brother was here all along, didn’t you, and decided to give him a good eye full – which in all honesty I didn’t mind one bit as the snogging was really enjoyable. But you didn’t think it through at all, did you?”  
  
“I was reckoning with him being a bit more discomfited.”  
  
“Actually, I rather believe Mycroft that he wouldn’t have been, even if we’d had wild sex right here on the stairs. Nevertheless, we could still go upstairs and jump around on the bed for a bit and make moaning noises. Perhaps the delay will annoy him and he’ll leave.”  
  
Now Sherlock laughed, too. “Tempting suggestion, but it’s unlikely to terminate his stay. Mrs. Hudson has been around to light a fire and she’ll have brought him tea and biscuits.”  
  
He sighed, straightening his jacket. “Come on, the sooner we face him, the sooner we can be rid of him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art again: "[In the greenhouse](http://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/77486599764/)" and "[Looks like you want your kisses now](http://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/80461758084/looks-like-you-want-your-kisses-now-a-second)":  
> 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter there are some references to events described in more detail in my other fics from the Over/Under-series, namely [_Over Hill and Under Hill_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/477582/chapters/828977%22) and [_Over Cloud and Under Cloud_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/595947/chapters/1073805). Also there's some talk about sexual stuff.

Mycroft was standing at the fireplace and idly poking at a piece of charred wood that had escaped it with the tip of his umbrella. John saw that Sherlock had been right. Mrs. Hudson had indeed been round and provided the British Government with tea and biscuits. Only the former, however, had been partaken of since the plate was still full.  
  
Mycroft turned as they entered, his face set in his customary faint smile that never reached his eyes, and which John liked to think of as his politician’s smile, outwardly pleasant yet contrived and laced with typical Mycroftian smugness. “Ah, how good of you to join me,” Mycroft drawled.  
  
Sherlock scoffed, ramming his hands into his pockets while John divested himself of his jacket. “Say your bit and leave. We have more important matters to attend,” spat Sherlock.  
  
Mycroft raised an eyebrow but didn’t seem perturbed or offended by his brother’s terse tone. “Obviously, as you so imaginatively demonstrated. I won’t keep you long, but as I said, this is a matter of interest to both of you.”  
  
Sherlock frowned, cocking his head as he studied his brother curiously. “You’re not here because of them,” he stated. “Interesting. And you’re not going to try and manipulate me into talking to ... people?”  
  
“Of course not. You made it quite clear that you are only going to receive them on your own terms, and as much as I should like for you to settle matters with our parents in the near future to avoid further inconvenience, it is not for me to decide the when and how.”  
  
“Or if,” added Sherlock darkly, turning to the window and running a hand over the stack of papers on his music stand.  
  
Mycroft pretended to overhear the remark. “No, brother dear, even though you have spent considerable energy today trying to avoid or at least postpone this inevitable meeting – I do wonder what you did at that precious little park in Clerkenwell for so long, Lloyd Square, was it? – you not only accomplished to irritate my people, but also forced me to cancel an important meeting in order to see to the matter personally. You owe me for that.”  
  
“Come to the point, Mycroft,” snarled Sherlock with barely contained impatience, spinning round to him in an overly dramatic move that made John roll his eyes. When were these two going to drop the games and behave like adults? “What’s in that folder?” demanded Sherlock imperiously, pointing towards a brown manilla envelope on the desk.  
  
“Ah, so your powers of observation have not been completely compromised by your recent ... activities.” Mycroft picked up the file and handed it over to Sherlock. “Have a look.”  
  
Sherlock snatched it from his brother’s hand and opened it. John stepped closer to look over his arm. On top of a substantial stack of papers was the photograph of a man.  
  
“Hey, we know that bloke,” mused John. “I actually wondered whether he’d ever show up again.” He glanced at Sherlock who was perusing the photo and a couple of additional images with a deep frown.  
  
Mycroft ambled over to them. “Yes, he has indeed ‘shown up’ again, after disappearing off our radar for a while, shortly after the initial investigation we undertook in August after you’d been sent the first photograph by your special acquaintance, Sherlock.”  
  
“You know who he is, then?” asked Sherlock looking up.  
  
“We have acquired some information, yes, despite the difficulty of finding anything valid at all. Somebody has been very careful to erase all traces of his true identity. Luckily we had the lead you provided.”  
  
“How so?”  
  
Mycroft gave him the kind of look Sherlock normally reserved for ‘stupid’ people – meaning in fact most of humanity. “You didn’t think you could fool us forever with the little scheme you and Ms. Adler devised, did you? It was rather obvious she had sent you the first photograph as well as the cute little warning, and it was less difficult than she thought to procure information about her whereabouts from there. My people can be quite efficient, you know. And after all, we knew she had not been killed in Karachi fairly quickly and soon acquired data about her having established a new identity somewhere on the East Coast of the United States. You may remember the photographs we had put on your new phone when you boarded the charter plane at Hahn Airport in Germany.”  
  
Sherlock gave a nod. “I do,” he muttered thoughtfully. “There was one of typical Bostonian brownstone houses. Among other pedestrians it showed a woman I recognised as her assistant and lover Kate, despite her sunglasses and new haircolour.”  
  
“Exactly. We couldn’t be sure of the link at the time and did not really see the need to investigate, but I did have suspicions about Ms. Adler’s true fate even then.”  
  
“Ah, so you waited for me to confirm your suspicions.”  
  
“Quite so. I had contacts in the CIA and NSA look into the matter, but she had been very careful at hiding her true identity and that of her assistant. But when you dragged yourself to Boston to collapse on her sofa, things were clear. You should have covered your tracks more carefully – although I daresay travelling by container ship as a blind passenger was rather ingenious, if uncomfortable –, but then you had other problems at the time and she certainly didn’t suffer any disadvantages or undue complications from your visit. On the contrary, she turned what information you provided, voluntarily or involuntarily, to her profit. But she is not our concern at the moment. In fact, she proved and continues to prove a valuable asset.”  
  
“Charged you for the hospitality she bestowed on me, did she?” asked Sherlock with a trace of amusement.  
  
Mycroft pulled a face. “More or less. But given the state you were in at the time, the food and medication she discreetly provided was crucial, not just for your continued utility as a field agent, but indeed your very survival. I did not consider it out of place to show a little gratitude in return.”  
  
“Because my loss would have caused you great distress?” scoffed Sherlock.  
  
“Naturally,” replied his brother, with a quiet finality that touched John, distracting him from the acute stab of jealousy he had felt at the mention of Irene Adler. The reminder that during one of the darker episodes of his exile, Sherlock had sought refuge with the Woman still didn’t sit well with him. He understood his friend’s reasoning, particularly after Sherlock had described his desperate plight at dinner only hours ago, nevertheless the idea stung, particularly while he himself, Sherlock’s best friend, had been kept in the dark and at that time had still mourned Sherlock.  
  
“What about this guy, then?” enquired John to change the subject, pointing at the man in the photographs. “The way you talk about sounds like he’s dangerous. She provided the photo. Does she know him, then?”  
  
“He is dangerous, so much is clear,” confirmed Mycroft darkly, the sharp tone sending a chill down John’s spine, both of apprehension and thrill. “Ms. Adler admitted to meeting him once, but he was using an alias at the time. But she has contacts in high places all over the world, mostly people she has gathered some juicy information about they do not want to see exposed, and therefore was able to reap some favours to obtain more on him. Apparently he aroused her suspicion in connection with Sherlock.”  
  
John frowned. “Why would she warn you, though?” He glanced at Sherlock. “I thought you were … – how did you put it? Even?”  
  
“We are,” replied Sherlock curtly, apparently not relishing to dwell on the subject. “But as Mycroft said, she obviously saw this as a way to profit from the situation. Cashing in on brotherly sentiment, so to say,” he added with a smug glance at Mycroft.  
  
Mycroft sniffed at the jibe but refused from commenting. “His name is Sebastian Moran,” he continued instead, nodding at the photograph, “and he is the one major player in James Moriarty’s organisation you neglected to dispose, Sherlock.”  
  
John noted how Sherlock bristled at the criticism and he shook his head with a small smile at Mycroft’s subtle revenge for his brother’s remark.  
  
“I was never aware of him,” Sherlock defended himself, glaring at his brother. “The first time I saw him was when the Woman sent the photograph.”  
  
“Then you weren’t paying attention,” said Mycroft, pointing at the file. “She made the connection much faster than you, having obviously seen him at Boston not long after your arrival. This caused her to do her own research, according to what she said. Have a look at the shots taken at Monte Carlo, St. Petersburg, Bogotá and Vienna. They’re in there.” He indicated another, smaller envelope inside the folder.  
  
With an irritated snarl, Sherlock began to leaf through it until he reached a couple of photographs that looked like a selection of tourist photos and paparazzi shots. Most had apparently been snatched from the internet judging from their resolution. There was also CCTV footage, mostly grainy and obviously enhanced digitally for better quality. One was a picture accompanying a newspaper article in Russian. The man, Moran, was in all of them, mostly in the background. Sometimes he was wearing sunglasses, hats or caps, or, in the Vienna shots, a short beard. But it was unmistakably him: tall, athletic, sun-tanned, his hair sun-bleached and his lean features sharp and keen. In one of the closer shots a scar was visible on one cheek.  
  
John turned his head to study Sherlock’s expression. Outwardly, the detective looked calm and composed, but John sensed the tension in his body. He took another look at the photographs and started, taking one out of the batch and holding it up for closer inspection.  
  
The picture had been taken at night in the brightly lit entrance area of what looked like an exclusive hotel. Silhouettes of palm trees could be seen to both sides indicating a southern climate. Moran was visible in profile through the slightly mirroring glass-doors as he was entering the lobby. He was wearing a beige suit, linen, perhaps, a white shirt and flat cap. A pair of sunglasses were stuck in into the open collar of the shirt,  and was carrying a bag over his shoulder. He looked like a casual if somewhat tasteful and refined tourist, and appeared to be either just about to check into the hotel, or arriving after spending the day out. It was difficult to see due to the fact that he was slightly out of focus and his face partly obscured by the hotel’s logo on the doors, but it seemed to John that he was looking towards the persons occupying the foreground of the picture.  
  
John focused on them. Half hidden by a sleek black limousine in the drive there was a boisterous group of people, mostly middle-aged men and some younger women, tall and slim, model-types. They were attired in long, figure-hugging and seductively cut dresses and wearing rather a lot of jewellery, while the men were dressed in expensive suits and tuxedos, their shirt collars loosened and their bow-ties undone, thus signifying the end of a night out gambling and moving on to more private and secluded destinations with their companions. One of the men in the foreground, dark hair slicked back to reveal a sun-tanned, rather handsome face, had slid his arm possessively around another figure and pressed it against his side. Not one of the women: this was another man. John’s eyes narrowed and he let out a surprised breath. “Sherlock, is that—”  
  
He felt Sherlock lean closer, his breath wafting over his cheek. “Me, yes,” came the flat reply.  
  
John looked up at him, aware of their proximity. Sherlock’s light-coloured eyes seemed almost golden in the warm light in the room, but his expression was stern. “So this was taken at Monte Carlo,” asked John, “and the guy with his arm round you is that South American drug-baron you were trying to seduce to get at his list of contacts?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
John leaned in to look even more closely at the figures. “Good to know he’s gone,” he growled, his jealousy flaring up once more. This was worse than the Woman, far worse, because this fellow actually laid hands on Sherlock – invited by Sherlock himself, at least to some extend. Even though outwardly Sherlock appeared to be enjoying himself – as well as looking utterly gorgeous in tuxedo, undone tie and and with ruffled but somewhat shorter hair – John thought he recognised his unease from the stiff way he held his body so as if to minimise the points of contact with his companion.  
  
“So Moran was there as well?” enquired Sherlock thoughtfully, looking up at his brother. “He looks like he is just arriving.”  
  
“Yes,” confirmed Mycroft who had been watching the two men quietly. “He checked in under a false identity that night. Does his bag look suspicious to you?”  
  
“Sniper rifle?”  
  
“Very likely.”  
  
Sherlock raised his eyes from another attentive study of the photograph. John noticed him stiffen slightly.  
  
“I spent the rest of the evening on Díaz’s yacht, and part of the night swimming back to the shore and then as a captive of Balandin’s idiot henchmen until I managed to escape.”  
  
“It is very possible that this saved your life that night,” said Mycroft gravely.  
  
“You think Moran was trying to kill Sherlock?” fell in John agitatedly.  
  
“There is the possibility, yes. Of course there were a lot of people present at the hotel and its casino who would make profitable targets for an assassin. We are keeping tabs on more than half of the group in the photograph, men and women. The lady in the purple dress, for example, may look like your usual ornamental companion for a night out, but in reality she is an exceedingly clever – and ruthless – ex-BND agent turned arms dealer, who also runs a highly profitable model agency on the side. But there was no assassination or attempt thereof reported that night or the days following.”  
  
“Still, there is no clear evidence Moran was indeed following me,” said Sherlock, obviously still rankled by his oversight which by all accounts might so easily have turned fatal. John felt tempted to reach up and stroke his shoulder to reassure him, but doubted the gesture would be welcome at this point, particularly under his brother’s keen gaze.  
  
“Not as such,” agreed Mycroft. “Still, there are indices. Despite my previous remark, it is understandable you did not pay attention to him since you were focused on more important players at the time. But we must not mistake with coincidence the fact that he shows up in more than one place you were investigating. My experience has shown that there is no such thing.”  
  
“You mean he has been following Sherlock? Trailing him?” asked John.  
  
“All evidence suggests that, yes. Sherlock managed to put him off his scent after the somewhat turbulent events at Monaco. He lay low in Germany for a while, investigating the hacker-ring at Frankfurt which lead to him getting caught once again.”  
  
Sherlock’s head jerked up at this, his expression thoughtful and tense. “The hackers were waiting for someone higher up to decide whether to further interrogate or kill me. That person was supposed to arrive the day I escaped. I must have missed him or her by sheer luck.”  
  
“We cannot be certain, but this could have been Moran,” nodded his brother.  
  
“But why?” fell in John. “Why should he go after him? Sherlock was undercover. Hell, officially he was dead. How could he know is true identity?”  
  
“We cannot be sure that Moran was indeed informed of it at the time,” explained Mycroft. “But after my brother’s first successful missions those that ran what remained of the organisation and weren’t focussed on squabbling with their competitors realised that there was someone chipping away at their empire, and was doing so skilfully and mercilessly. So of course they would have wanted to put an end to that and capture or kill the mysterious inconvenience. Someone like Moran would have come in quite handy.”  
  
“Is he an assassin, then? A hired gun?” asked John, after a quick glance at Sherlock’s impassive, thoughtful face. “And do you know who sent him? Or was he working for himself, to avenge his boss, perhaps?”  
  
“If he were an assassin worth his mettle I’d be dead now,” stated Sherlock. “Despite me apparently putting him off my scent a few times he always seemed to have found it again. And he managed to hide in my plain sight. Mine. That means he’s good. I doubt revenge was his motivation. No, it seems he was trailing me to watch me. He may even have helped me, as there were two instances when I was almost incapacitated but managed to escape because my enemies were distracted. At one time I am very sure the person chasing me was taken out by a well-placed sniper. Like you, Mycroft, I don’t believe in coincidences. I thought at the time that either your people or the local authorities or indeed rival organisations had intervened. I never linked it to my person, though. But now I’m not so sure anymore. Moreover my ‘death’ wasn’t a secret altogether,” he went on with a quick, apologetic glance at John.  
  
“There were several people involved in staging it and keeping me off the radar afterwards. I do trust them, that’s why they were chosen, but given the time constraints of the operation it is possible we overlooked a few things and didn’t check everybody’s background as thoroughly as we should have. And most people can be bought, or otherwise persuaded. Perhaps you should screen your underlings more carefully, Mycroft, and start an internal investigation. Can you really trust all of them? If Moran is as dangerous as you claim he is – and there is evidence here that he does have both great skill at tracking someone and good connections – he is bound to have friends in high places and access to a lot of resources. I remember that some of your field agents were taking their undercover placements very ‘seriously’, going as far as involving themselves actively in operations of a more questionable kind and working hand in hand with the people they had been assigned to get rid of.”  
  
Mycroft frowned. “As you did, although in your defence you weren’t an official field agent, more a rogue freelancer.”  
  
“And a useful one,” insisted Sherlock gruffly.  
  
“Yes, without question. And so are they. But concerning their loyalty, an investigation is already under way, and we have our eyes on several who might be working for more than one employer, in high places and low, or who may have gone … native.”  
  
“Do we know anything else about this Moran?” asked John, leafing back to the most recent photograph of the man which according to the date stamp had been taken two days ago at Gatwick Airport.  
  
Mycroft nodded. “Once we knew where to look we unearthed substantial information about his background. Moreover we have a fairly detailed report of his itinerary during Sherlock’s ... mission, but as I said, he disappeared in July and has only now resurfaced in Britain. We suspect he spent some time in the Near East, either Syria or Jemen, by all accounts supervising training camps for various terrorist groups.”  
  
“He’s published two books on game hunting,” said Sherlock, perusing what looked like a CV. “Seems to be especially interested in big cats. That’s what the Russian article is about, too, him supporting a campaign for the protection of Siberian tigers – although the point of posing with two dead ones rather escapes me in that context. Appears to be friendly with several Russian oligarchs. One, Kruchinkin, had ties to Moriarty’s organisation. It was him and his ring of weapon-dealers I took out in St. Petersburg.”  
  
“I thought you didn’t speak Russian?” stated John surprisedly, staring at the article and recalling a conversation they had had in summer.  
  
“I can read Cyrillic fairly fluently by now,” explained Sherlock, “and I studied the basic structure and vocabulary of the language when we were working on that art theft case last month. I doubt I can actively speak Russian beyond the very basics, but my passive command of vocabulary and grammar proved sufficient to grasp the general gist of the article.”  
  
“Of course,” muttered John with a small but genuinely impressed smile, fascinated once again by his friend’s intelligence.  
  
“Also,” Sherlock lifted the newspaper article to reveal another page of text, “here’s the English transcript.” He grinned briefly at John’s snort and elegantly evaded the amicable stab of his elbow.  
  
“Moran seems to have a soft spot for those – tigers, not oligarchs –, albeit big cats and other challenging game are not the only thing he hunts,” nodded Mycroft who had watched their moment of banter with a delicately raised eyebrow. “He was born in Kingston, Jamaica, and was educated at Eaton.”  
  
“Oh, rich family, then?” asked John.  
  
“Well to do, yes. Both parents deceased, however, no siblings. His parents were diplomats and he was left with a trust fund to pay for his education, his uncle functioning as his legal guardian until he came of age.”  
  
“Even though he is mostly in disguise as an inconspicuous tourist in these photos, his stance and bearing speak of a military background,” mused Sherlock, leaving through the photos again.  
  
“That is correct,” confirmed Mycroft. “Officer’s training at Sandhurst, then several years of active duty in most of the world’s hot spots at the time, chiefly Northern Ireland, Kosovo, then Iraq. About five years ago he was dishonourably discharged after his involvement in a drug-smuggling affair in the Near East became known that included the killing of civilians. He should have gone to jail but managed to avoid that, apparently with the help of one James Moriarty. After that, he went freelance and was regularly employed by our special friend. We still don’t quite know what role he played in the organisation. And frustratingly, we also don’t know what exactly he wants with you, Sherlock. What seems clear, though, is that he did indeed follow you around, and that he is dangerous, even more so because his true motive is yet unaccounted for.”  
  
Sherlock squared his shoulders, drawing himself up. “Is this why you are here, then, to warn me?”  
  
Mycroft raised his chin and weathered his keen, penetrating stare unflinchingly. “Yes, precisely. Something is coming, Sherlock. You wreaked a lot of havoc and upset a lot of people during your nine months abroad.”  
  
“Don’t pretend you didn’t require me to,” snapped Sherlock tersely. “I did your dirty work, the stuff you can’t officially let your agents do. If anything, it was highly convenient for you that I was ‘dead’. If Moran is a hired gun now, I wasn’t much better, only that I didn’t have the advantage of a sniper’s rifle most of the time but actually had to get my hands dirty, often in the true sense of the word.”  
  
“I know all that, Sherlock,” returned Mycroft, more gentle than John would have anticipated given the brothers’ tense confrontation. “I won’t apologise because your work proved decisive in more than one case, but do not believe I am ungrateful for the fact that you are back now, safe and sound. I meant what I said earlier, you know. Take it as a small indication of sentiment on my behalf. I do worry about you, constantly. And now that you are back in London, a public figure once more thanks to the extensive press coverage of your personal life and the … creativity of your avid internet followers, your safety might be compromised. Eventually, people are bound to connect the silent spy and killer with the quaint detective happily reunited with his blogger. Moran may only be the first in a long queue.”  
  
“I know how to look after myself,” declared Sherlock haughtily. “I wouldn’t be here otherwise. And so does John. And of course we’re under constant surveillance by you and your minions.”  
  
Mycroft sighed, dropping his gaze to where his umbrella rested on the carpet. “Yes, I am aware of that.”  
  
He raised his eyes again and added, “But a little warning never goes amiss, does it? Particularly in the knowledge of your constant disregard of measures of health and safety in order to pursue your little ... adventures. And your better half John here is no help in this respect. Adrenaline addicts, both of you. Therefore, surveillance is necessary whether you appreciate it or not. Still, CCTV does not reach everywhere, and you of course are always keen to avoid the cameras. Keep your eyes open, both of you. Have a closer look at the file. I shall leave it here. See what else you can make of it and inform me of anything that comes to your attention. This is serious, Sherlock. Don’t treat it like your usual trivia. People will suffer otherwise, people dear to you. And wasn’t this entire scheme set up to protect them from harm? Do not forget who Moriarty’s killers had their sights trained on. You’re no longer dead. Who knows whether his initial command has been roused from dormancy, too.”  
  
“Don’t you think you’re overly dramatic, Mycroft?” John asked, while Sherlock shut the file with a snap as if to indicate the end of the conversation.  
  
”I am _careful_ ,” returned his brother with a sour smile. “That is what has kept me where I am for so long. I know you are loath to do so, but heed my words for a change, Sherlock. Be careful, too. And don’t let yourself get ... distracted too much,” he ended with a pointed glance at John who jerked up his chin in defiance.  
  
Sherlock scowled at his brother as Mycroft picked up the coat he had deposited over John’s armchair. “Do give my regards to Mrs. Hudson for her hospitality. I shan’t keep you any longer tonight. Do keep in touch, though. You have my number.” With a nod at John and at his brother, he sauntered out of the room.  
  
John let out a breath when he heard his footsteps recede down the stairs. Taking the file out of Sherlock’s hands, he opened it again to gaze at Moran’s military records with a frown. Sherlock moved over to the window but did not shift the curtain to look out. He just stood there unmovingly. John lifted his gaze from the report to study his friend’s grim profile. His confidence and bravado seemed to have evaporated, and John understood that he had pretended to brush off Mycroft’s warning when in truth it had gotten to him.  
  
“You’re worried,” he stated plainly. “And you’re angry at yourself for not spotting Moran when he was trailing you.”  
  
Sherlock drew a breath and jerked his shoulders irritably. “We do not know for sure that he was indeed trailing me, nor that his reappearance in England has anything to do with me.”  
  
“We cannot be sure that he isn’t after you, either. Actually, considering all we know, it seems likely he is. Makes me wonder why you’re not all aflame at the thought of reversing the game and hunting him down. By all accounts, he’s really good: clever, ruthless and very resourceful. Isn’t that a brilliant challenge for you to try and trap him?”  
  
Sherlock spun round to him, pinning him with a piercing glare. “This is not a game, John.”  
  
Taken aback by the ferocity in his voice and gaze, John frowned. “I wasn’t taking it as a game,” he returned defensively. “Wrong term, sorry. And actually, that’s rather big coming from you – you who played around with Moriarty to the bitter end.”  
  
Sherlock scowled at him, a sharp remark obviously on his tongue. John braced himself for the barb, but it never came. Sherlock’s expression changed. He dropped his gaze and let out a long breath, his intimidating demeanour deflating. “I learned my lesson,” he said quietly, looking grave, almost sad of a sudden.  
  
Depositing the file on the desk, John joined him at the window, reaching out to squeeze his tense shoulder briefly. “So you did. I’m sorry if I didn’t seem to take it seriously. He appears to be a smart fellow, smart and dangerous, and good with a rifle, too, if these accounts of his hunting and assassination pursuits are true.”  
  
“You were thinking of exchanging the roles,” observed Sherlock. “Making the hunter the prey. You were excited at the prospect of going after him, of devising a trap for him, particularly after you heard he used to be in the army. You still are. You think you can taken him on, protect me. Protect us.”  
  
“You aren’t? Excited, I mean?” John asked incredulously. “Don’t you see this – Moran, the implication that there might be a leak in Mycroft’s organisation – as a challenge?”  
  
“I see him as a threat,” returned Sherlock grimly. Looking at him, his stern, thoughtful, worried expression, John thought he understood.  
  
“You’re worried he’ll target me?”  
  
Sherlock’s lips narrowed. He drew another breath, then nodded gravely. “We’ve been there before, remember? With Moriarty. He knew you were important to me even then, when officially we were still only flatmates and crime-solving colleagues. ‘I’ll burn the heart out of you’, that’s what he said, back at the pool. And he almost succeeded, not just with me. Nine months of grief and mourning for you, and the same time of darkness and loneliness and many things I wish I could delete for me.”  
  
“I never asked for that kind of protection or sacrifice, you know that,” said John tersely, not relishing the reminder of their time apart.  
  
“Of course not, but it was the only kind I could devise at the time. And it kept you alive. And I would do it again, anything, to keep you alive.”  
  
“I wasn’t ‘alive’, Sherlock. And I don’t want to mourn you again, understood?”  
  
Sherlock gazed at him. John thought he looked very young in the dim light from the street outside and the few light sources in the room. “I don’t want to mourn you, either, John. That’s why we better heed this warning, as much as it galls me to forgo the ‘adventure’ and follow my brother’s orders. Our involvement is no longer a secret, nor is our address. Moran is likely to know more about us than we about him. It’s obvious he doesn’t simply want to kill me. He’s had ample opportunity for it, the photographic documentation shows that. But unless he makes a move to show is hand and reveal his true motives, we do not know what he wants. Yet we cannot risk him having the initiative, not when there’s so much at stake. But on the other hand he is still too vague a feature for me to devise a plan to draw him out. I hate this, John. I hate having to wait, to react instead of act.”  
  
“I know. I’m the same. But I’m willing to take some risk – calculated, mind you. Not for the thrill. Or, bugger that, okay, for the thrill, too.”  
  
“That’s why it won’t happen,” said Sherlock sternly.  
  
“You mean I make you vulnerable. Our ... how did you call it ... involvement does?”  
  
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, his expression suddenly fierce. “You don’t make me vulnerable. You make me strong. But I cannot have him or anybody else hurt you. I wouldn’t …,” he swallowed hard, tearing his intense gaze away from John again and ramming his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “It wouldn’t be good, you getting hurt,” he finished somewhat lamely.  
  
“I’ll be careful,” promised John. “There are plenty of people looking out for us. Your brother and his folks, and Lestrade, and didn’t you tell your homeless network to watch out for the bloke when we first received his photo from the Woman? We’ll be warned. And if he’s really got it in for you, or me, or anybody close to us, well, he’d better wrap up warm. I happen to like tigers, and I don’t take kindly to arseholes who shoot them for sport. Them or other endangered species. Especially consulting detectives, of whom I have on good authority there’s only one left in the world.”  
  
Sherlock turned to him, and while there was still worry lingering in his expression, and a quiet fear that John couldn’t recall having seen on his features before, now the corners of his eyes and mouth crinkled in a smile.  
  
“Quite right,” he said gently. “They don’t make good exhibits, consulting detectives. Bullet holes destroy their unique hide, and they’d be utterly bored being dead. The same goes for ex-army doctors, by the way.”  
  
“Good that we talked about that and are in agreement,” said John with a smile, giving Sherlock’s shoulders another squeeze and remained standing close to him, leaning against him slightly. “Although my hide has already been damaged by a bullet, so perhaps it’s not in such high demand anymore.”  
  
“But it’s unique,” protested Sherlock.  
  
John smiled. “Not as much as yours. You’d be difficult to preserve. And they wouldn’t find glass eyes to match yours anyway, the way they constantly change colour.”  
  
Sherlock chuckled as he melted into John’s one armed embrace. “Oh, you’d be astonished what wonders a good glass-blower can do. One of my first cases involved one who made replicas of historic glass-beads, mostly Roman. Which reminds me: we do have a case apart from this Moran business, and we should do some research tonight to be prepared for when we go to Rendlesham tomorrow. Molly will have sent the toxicology report, and I hope Katie has emailed some additional information, too.”  
  
“Tomorrow? Didn’t you want to wait for how things developed with the police. And remember, I have to check at work first whether I can get leave or not.”  
  
“You could always call in sick.”  
  
John snorted. “It’d be unfair for the others who’d have to take over my patients. But I will ask, okay? Might be a good idea anyway to get out of town until Mycroft knows more about Moran.”  
  
“It’s doubtful that our relocation to Suffolk would put him off our scent, should he really be following us. I’ll send out some notices to my network. It’s not that we don’t have effective resources at our disposal as well. Now that we know what we are looking for, it should be possible to find him and moreover keep him in our sights.”  
  
He made a move towards the coffee table where his laptop stood, but John held him back gently.  
  
“Can we stand for a moment longer?” asked John. “It’s just ... you’re rarely so still. Let’s just ... take a short break, okay, before you dash off again.”  
  
From the corner of his eye he saw Sherlock raise an eyebrow at him, but then he felt his friend’s arm sneak round his waist and draw him closer. Sherlock dropped a soft kiss on his hair before settling his cheek against it. “It’s hard work, this caring business,” he rumbled into the companionable silence. “Painful, too, at times. All this worry, all those pitfalls, things you have to say and do and others you mustn’t. But it does have its advantages.”  
  
“Such as?”  
  
“This.” He squeezed John’s side and drew a deep breath into his hair. “And the kissing. And the fact that you’re always around to make fresh tea.”  
  
John snorted, dropping his arm to pinch Sherlock’s side playfully and grinning at the sharp intake of breath and undignified wriggle of the other. “Oi, was that a not so subtle hint that I should move myself into the kitchen and put the kettle on?”  
  
“Yes. Is it working?”  
  
“You’re impossible, you know that?”  
  
“Yes. But I was under the impression you liked that.”  
  
John heaved a dramatic sigh. “I’m going to overthink the caring business.”  
  
“Don’t hurt yourself while doing so – ouch.”  
  
“You really ought to be taught some manners, Mr. Holmes.”  
  
“Are you trying to achieve that by pinching me continuously?”  
  
“Tickling torture, or wasn’t that how you termed it?”  
  
Sherlock sniffed, jerking up his head and pouting. “I need to find a way to retaliate in kind.”  
  
John grinned. “Well, you’ve already perfected the pouncing on me when I don’t expect it and snogging me somewhat thoroughly. Not that I’m complaining, although sometimes a little warning wouldn’t go amiss. I’m also a tad insulted that you used that technique just to try and annoy your brother.”  
  
“It wasn’t just that,” said Sherlock quietly. The tone startled John. Looking up at his profile, John saw he was frowning, his expression thoughtful, even concerned. “Was that what you thought?” asked Sherlock. “That I just kissed you to annoy Mycroft or to prove a point?”  
  
“Well, I wasn’t thinking much while the snogging lasted.” John sighed. “But I do feel overwhelmed by your … eagerness sometimes, particularly when …,” he shrugged, not quite knowing how to phrase what he wanted to say without hurting Sherlock. The other straightened even more to bring some distance between their shoulders and gazed at John expectantly.  
  
“Particularly when what?”  
  
John sighed again, running his free hand through his hair before facing up to Sherlock steadily. “Particularly when you don’t seem to be … don’t know … prepared … willing … considering – insert the appropriate verb – to follow through with things.”  
  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Things?” he asked, a slight edge to his voice.  
  
“You know what I mean. Or, well, perhaps you don’t ….”  
  
“Sex,” stated Sherlock plainly.  
  
John swallowed. “Yeah, that. Listen, we’ve been there before, this discussion, I mean. And with everything else going on at the moment, it’s certainly not the best time to bring it up again. It’s just .... I kinda feel our of my depth here, so often caught at unawares and not knowing how to react appropriately because I have no idea what you’re on about, what you’re aiming at. What you want, of me, us ... this.”  
  
Sherlock studied him. “And you think I do?”  
  
John sighed. “Well, yes, I’d at least entertained that hope. I know this is new for you, relationships and all that. And I’m rather out of practise, too – not that I’ve ever been in a relationship quite like this one, with a person I was friends before we became something else. Something … closer, somehow, and I’m not just meaning sex here. And as I’ve said before, I don’t expect anything from you you don’t want to give, and you know I won’t ever pressure you. It’s just … you can only tease so much, I guess.”  
  
Sherlock lifted his chin. “You want me to stop.”  
  
“No,” said John quickly. “I enjoy it, don’t get me wrong. I can barely remember when I’ve last been kissed like that. It’s just … I sometimes wonder if you enjoy it as much as I or if you’re just doing it because you’re trying to compensate for other things.”  
  
“Such as?”  
  
“Heck, I don’t know. How should I know? If I were to guess, I’d say stuff like emotional stress. The business with your parents, or your refusal to deal with a situation like with your brother. Tactics of evasion and distraction, basically. Before there was me you seemed to have had other ways of coping.”  
  
Sherlock’s lips narrowed. This wasn’t going well, thought John.  
  
“You mean drugs,” stated Sherlock. “Nicotine, cocaine? The Work?”  
   
John sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, basically – not that I want you to go back to them. I’ll gladly function as a replacement, although I’m not sure that’s a healthy option in the long run, either. But there is no denying that you are troubled. That thing with your dad really bothers you, even if you deny it to yourself. You’re worried about Moran, too, about people hurting me. You get very protective, very tense. It sometimes seems to me that the more difficult the situation gets, and I’m talking of difficulties you can’t solve intellectually, the more ... physically demonstrative you become. More clingy and cuddly, but also more possessive, more ... uhm ... sexually aggressive.”  
  
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he took in John’s expression. John was certain he was flushing, not least under that penetrating, relentless gaze. He hated talks like this. He found it difficult to gauge and openly describe his own emotional state at the best of times. Guessing Sherlock’s and trying to put his assumptions into words while at the same time remaining diplomatic, even gentle and understanding seemed almost impossible.  
  
“You think it’s not about you, just a way of me trying to cope with things that trouble me?” Sherlock summed up his careful assessment.  
  
Surprised by the insightful and seemingly unaffected comment, John nodded. “Yeah, basically.”  
  
Sherlock let out a breath, shaking his head slightly. “You do realise that you are the only person I’d willingly involve in these … activities?”  
  
“Yeah, I and that drug-baron,” John muttered, immediately aware that he shouldn’t have spoken his thought aloud.  
  
Sherlock took a step away from him, his expression wary and, briefly, before the habitual mask fell over his features, hurt. “That was for a case, of sorts,” he returned sharply. “You know that. In fact, it was to keep you safe. And I loathed every moment of it. I didn’t kiss him, only suffered him to kiss me, if it can be called kissing. It was violent and possessive and gross, and certainly not arousing, at least on my part. I didn’t initiate anything, and only touched him as little as I could without dropping the act. Do you really believe I enjoyed what I let him do to me, any of it? If anything, it only confirmed my believe that sex isn’t for me.”  
  
He calmed down a little, turning away from John to gaze out of the window, biting his lip. John was about to apologise when Sherlock spoke again, softly now as if to himself. “I wasn’t quite truthful, you know.”  
  
“When?” asked John, hoping he sounded calm and supportive since Sherlock seemed clearly troubled by the entire issue. At the same time he felt apprehensive of what truth might come to light. Sherlock had told him some things about his botched attempt at seduction, but had he been been entirely frank in his account? Where there darker secrets lingering? Had things proceeded beyond unwelcome kisses and touches after all? John felt faintly sick and drew a breath to fortify himself for the revelation.  
  
“At Buckingham Palace,” said Sherlock.  
  
John frowned, confused by the apparent change of subject. “What did you say or do at Buckingham Palace that wasn’t truthful? It’s so long ago. I do recall you stole an ashtray, though.” _And provided a beautiful view of your naked back and a glimpse of your backside_ , his brain supplied unhelpfully and he felt his cheeks redden.  
  
Sherlock’s lips twitched into a quick smile before drew a deep breath. “Amongst other things, I claimed that sex didn’t alarm me.”  
  
“Oh. Yeah, that,”  said John, relief rushing through him. He glanced at Sherlock questioningly. “And?”  
  
Sherlock sighed, turning his head to gaze at John steadily. “I lied. It does alarm me. In fact, the idea of it, or rather, the idea of my ... active involvement in it scares the shit out of me.”  
  
John looked at him, his vulnerable, genuine and yet adorably awkward expression and couldn’t help laugh softly while reaching out to caress his cheek. “I know that, Sherlock,” he said gently. “Although you could have fooled me a short while ago.”  
  
Sherlock smiled a little sheepishly. “In the future, I shall endeavour to control my emotions better.”  
  
“And your urges?” asked John slyly.  
  
“Those, too,” replied Sherlock with a small, somewhat embarrassed smile. “It’s still new to me, having those,” he then admitted.  
  
John raised his eyebrows at that. “Well, even you must have gone through puberty at some point.”  
  
“Are you comparing me with a hormone-addled adolescent?”  
  
“No, I just implied that you must have experienced the hormone-addled phase when you were a teenager. Didn’t you ever feel the need to … experiment back then? Or later, at uni? I gather you weren’t popular with your peers, which frankly I don’t understand. I mean, you’re brilliant, you can be extremely charming in a somewhat manipulative way, and … well, you look bloody gorgeous. Unusual, but striking. I’m sure there were interested parties.”  
  
He saw Sherlock’s cheeks colour faintly. “Perhaps they were, but I wasn’t interested in them. In those rare cases someone caught my attention or even affection, if you want to call it that in Victor’s case, the sentiment was not returned in kind, and I certainly didn’t feel the desire or need to engage in sexual intercourse with any of them, not even for gathering scientific data on the subject. As for hormonal urges, I did not pay them much heed during puberty, being rather put off by the blatant displays and inane discussions of my fellow students at Harrow.”  
  
“Mind over body, eh?”  
  
“Pretty much, yes. I taught myself to control them until they rarely surfaced.”  
  
“And when they did?” asked John, hoping he wasn’t too direct but surmising that if these rather invasive questions truly bothered Sherlock he would, in his frank and direct manner, simply refuse to answer them. However, Sherlock seemed in a communicative mood, which John appreciated greatly. The somewhat detached way Sherlock approached the subject actually made it easier to talk about it. John decided to venture a little further and ask about a matter which he had wondered about for a while. “I mean, when you couldn’t control them …”  
  
Sherlock cocked his head slightly, his expression, though still showing faint embarrassment, now also seemed to carry a trace of amusement. “It’s quite fascinating how you talk around the things you really want to know, John,” he said. “Does your enquiry concern my mastubatory habits?”  
  
“Do you have any?” John countered, his mouth quicker than any regulatory thoughts. God, this was awkward. But blokes talked about these things, didn’t they? Okay, perhaps Sherlock didn’t. John briefly wondered if he’d ever received the Talk from his parents. Certainly not from his father. His scientific minded mother, perhaps. Or Mycroft. God, how would that have gone? But most likely he’d just been pointed to the relevant section of a book and left there.  
  
Apparently sensing his discomfort, as well as attempting to laugh off his own, Sherlock chuckled softly. “Occasionally, yes,” he confessed. “When the transport can’t entirely be controlled by the intellect.”

John swallowed, trying very much not to imagine Sherlock touching himself and failing spectacularly. He could only hope that his body wasn’t displaying any signs of what these thoughts did to him. Then again, this was Sherlock Holmes he was standing next to. John decided to take the plunge. Things could scarcely get more awkward.  
  
“And do you enjoy it?” he asked.  
  
Sherlock shrugged. “Not particularly. As a teenager when I had to resort to masturbation I found it tedious. I never knew what to think about or what to imagine to speed things up. The physical release was satisfying when it came, I guess, but the process of reaching it was boring and messy, and in one case extremely humiliating.”  
  
“Got caught?”  
  
Sherlock nodded. “In a way. Unplanned nightly ejaculation during a school trip, one of the first times it happened to me at all – I reached puberty quite late. You can imagine how my peers latched onto that, yet another thing to tease the ‘freak’ about.”  
  
“Oh shit,” muttered John, cringing in sympathy, remembering stealthy nighttime or early morning expeditions to the bathroom and the washing machine, his arms full of soiled bedsheets. To have this happen in the company of other kids who had it in for you anyway – an utter nightmare.  
  
“So you just … stopped getting aroused,” John wondered.  
  
“Eventually, yes.”  
  
“Until Victor came along?”  
  
“Not particularly,” replied Sherlock, his eyes flying over John’s features. “I didn’t want to sleep with him. That one time we danced was … all right, I guess, but given the fact we were both somewhat inebriated, him more than I, I doubt one can confuse that with sexual desire or even arousal.”  
  
“Would you have had sex with him had he asked?”  
  
Sherlock’s eyes lingered on John’s face before he turned to the window again and lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “I don’t know. Perhaps eventually, after being together for a while, to see what all the fuss was about. But it didn’t happen, so all speculation is purely hypothetical anyway. And before you ask, no, I certainly didn’t want to sleep with the Woman. There is only one person I can imagine doing that with, and you know who that is. And to return to your initial enquiry, because I think that’s what you were aiming for and wanting to ask in the first place but are too embarrassed to actually say, yes, I do feel the urge to be close to you, and I find myself increasingly wanting to touch you or be touched by you. Moreover, as you’ve correctly spotted, my control on my libido has somewhat slackened lately, a sad fact which can entirely be blamed on you.”  
  
“So you think of me now when you touch yourself?” asked John before he could censor himself. Sherlock’s blush was answer enough. “Does it help?” John added slyly. “Does it … er … improve things?”  
  
Despite all his adorable awkwardness, Sherlock seemed to have decided to simply play along and go for absolute honesty. “Well, it certainly led to an increase in quantity and efficiency.”  
  
And quality? John was about to ask when the ring of Sherlock’s mobile startled both of them.  
  
With a sigh of what John interpreted as relief, a feeling he shared, despite his astonishment and appreciation of Sherlock actually talking about sex, Sherlock withdrew his phone from the inner pocket of his jacket. He frowned at the screen for a moment – an unknown number, apparently – before swiping it to answer. His eyes lit up when the caller identified herself. John was standing close enough to recognise the voice as Katie’s. A moment later Sherlock switched on the speaker for John to listen in on the conversation.  
  
“I’m really sorry to bother you so late,” said Katie. There was some rushing background noise, most likely she was driving. “But you said to call you any time if something new came up. It did, but not in a good way.” She sounded both tired and worried.  
  
“What happened?” asked Sherlock.  
  
“I’ve just been to see Susan and Peter – the Millers – to tell them about the toxicology report and your interest in the case, and to inform them about the course of action we devised. When I reached their farm they’d just been back from a final round of the stables after having been away all afternoon to meet friends to prepare the bonfire for tomorrow.”  
  
“Has there been another dead horse?” enquired John over Sherlock’s shoulder.  
  
“No, luckily not. But what happened isn’t much better: Ælfgifu’s foal, Ælthelflæd, has vanished. The stable was securely locked, there’s no trace of a forced entry, no blood, no sign of a struggle. No dead foal, either, or any trace of the body.”  
  
Sherlock made a sound at that, which, to John’s astonishment, Katie picked up. “I have no doubt, and neither do the Millers, that you could make more of the situation. They were very grateful when I told them you’d agreed to help. They want to contact the local police tomorrow morning, but we thought it might be good if you were around to have a look at the site before they arrive. It’s late, and already dark, of course, and we’re aware that the Miller’s own search of the site might have destroyed some evidence or information you need, but if you could come quickly, I’m sure it’d be a huge relief to them. And me, I must admit. I’ve just taken Emma home. She was at a friend’s today, but there’s school tomorrow and that means bed for her. I doubt she’ll sleep much, though. She was very upset by the news. She’d been looking after the foal since its birth.”  
  
“There aren’t any more trains to Woodbridge or Melton tonight,” said Sherlock, “but we should manage to make it to Ipswich if we leave soon.”  
  
“I can fetch you there, no problem,” said Katie quickly. “Just let me known when.”  
  
Sherlock glanced at his watch. “It’s doubtful we’ll make the 23:02 since that’s less than half an hour, but the 23:30 shouldn’t be a problem. It’ll reach Ipswich shortly before 1 am.”  
  
“I’ll be there. Thanks so much. Is there anything you need? Should I try and arrange accommodation for you somewhere or would you be okay with staying at my place, at least for the night? I think the Millers would appreciate not having to look after guests right now.”  
  
“Don’t worry about accommodation. I doubt we’ll be sleeping much tonight,” Sherlock told her. “I’ll let you know if the train is delayed.”  
  
He ended the call, saved the number and turned to John. “I’ll order a taxi to get us to Liverpool Street. Pack for two or three days. That should suffice.”  
  
John raised his hands. “Whoa, Sherlock, I haven’t even asked for time off work.”  
  
“Call in sick, as I said before. Or do you not want to come?”  
  
“I do. It’s just ….”  
  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow in challenge and John let out an exasperated breath. “Oh, damn it. It’s a marvel they haven’t fired me by now, it really is. I’ll leave a message on the answering machine.”  
  
Sherlock’s eyes lit up at the announcement. “I knew I could count on you,” he stated with a smug smirk.  
  
“Oh, do shut up and go pack your own stuff,” growled John, but without any real anger. The prospect of not having to work tomorrow but spend time out in the country on what was shaping up to be a fairly interesting case, but even more the prospect of spending this time with Sherlock excited him. Gazing at his friend who’d already swung into action and was gathering together their laptops and respective chargers in a whirl of limbs, John knew that the sentiment was shared. Off to Suffolk, then, he thought, and smiled.  
  
“Don’t forget your gun,” said Sherlock while rifling through the stack of papers on the desk, most likely to search for the charger of his mobile, looking up briefly and giving John a wide grin, his eyes shining with the thrill of a new case.  
  
“As if I would,” returned John, and set out towards his room.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The illustration for this chapter is "[Window talk](http://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/81759166083/window-talk-illustration-and-teaser-for-chapter)":  
> 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter should have been finished and posted weeks ago, but sadly Real Life interfered on a massive scale. But at least the boys are in Suffolk now, and I hope the next chapter won't take that long to write. Thanks to all who bear with this story.

They reached Liverpool Street Station with about twenty minutes to spare. While Sherlock bought the train tickets, John went in search of a Waterstones to acquire an Ordnance Survey map of the Woodbridge area. Unfortunately the bookshop was already closed for the night, so he just got himself and Sherlock a cup of coffee and met him at the track their train was about to depart from. Their locomotive was called “Rædwald”, which John took as funny coincidence and a good omen for their journey.  
  
Not many people were about at this late time, nevertheless John took a long glance round the platform as they boarded, feeling the weight and hard shape of the Sig against his back under the small rucksack he habitually used for cycling and which now contained some clothes and necessities for the next couple of days. Nothing suspicious met his eye, and he sighed and climbed the steps into the carriage.  
  
Once settled next to each other, Sherlock immediately whipped out his mobile and started texting, most likely his homeless network to watch out for signs of Moran. John leaned back sipping his coffee, watching him absently. He’d learned so much about his friend today that his mind was still spinning with all the revelations. There was the thing with Sherlock’s father, the unexpected but highly cherished glimpse into his past, the news of Moran. Of course Sherlock’s assessment of John’s reaction had been right: he was feeling more excited than worried at the moment. It wasn’t that things had been too calm lately, but something about Moran had struck a chord. Perhaps it was the fact that he’d been in the army, perhaps it was because for several months he’d been tailing Sherlock without one of the most observant people in the world noticing. John felt the acute need to keep Sherlock safe, to in a way repay him for the selfless (if unrequested) protection he had bought for John with his ‘suicide’. At the same time he couldn’t wait to measure himself against someone like Moran, someone highly skilled and resourceful. Actually, John had anticipated Sherlock to be thrilled about the prospect of another ‘great game’ against a worthy enemy, but his friend seemed extremely reluctant to engage in anything to draw Moran out. John wasn’t sure what to make of that.  
  
Still, as thrilling thoughts of Moran were, other news John had learned today had been even more fascinating. There had been more light on Sherlock’s doings abroad, despite the somewhat touchy subject much appreciated information since John still felt left in the dark about so much of what Sherlock had endured or been forced to do during his exile.  
  
And then last but certainly not least they’d had the exceedingly awkward but heartfelt conversation about his friend’s past sexual encounters – or lack thereof – which had provided a glimpse into the current state of his libido. John felt his cheeks redden at the memory of what Sherlock had revealed, namely not just the fact that yes, he did feel sexual arousal at times. John had wondered whether he was asexual, despite some vague allusions and briefly felt evidence of physical arousal during their cuddles. Even more remarkable – and flattering – was the knowledge that this desire seemed to be linked almost exclusively to John’s person. The thought was a heady one, but certainly didn’t make matters less complicated.  
  
John had always considered his own sexual appetite average, despite the reputation he had acquired in the military. He thought back and realised that the last time he’d slept with someone was almost two years ago. Who’d have thought that of Three Continents Watson? He smiled wryly to himself. There had been times when he’d missed it – not so much the sex in itself, the physical release and pleasure, but rather the intimacy, the closeness, the idea of pleasuring another person and not just himself. But these desires had soon been replaced by just the feeling of missing something acutely, something vital. They had intensified a hundredfold after Sherlock had jumped, and finally John had allowed himself to locate this strange absence he had felt so keenly, and which was almost crushing him now after his best friend’s demise. And it wasn’t just that he’d finally admitted to himself that his feelings for Sherlock had long left the realm of platonic. Actual desire to be physically close to him had only flared up later, after his return. But John had understood that he had craved the strange kind of intimacy they’d already shared despite officially only being labelled flatmates and friends. The Woman had been right, they had been a couple all along. The deep love John felt for Sherlock had been present even then, unnamed still, but felt by both even though neither seemed to have been consciously aware of it.  
  
And wasn’t that the most beautiful realisation of them all, the fact that Sherlock returned John’s feelings, had done so for a long time, had endured quiet jealousy over a string of girlfriends, always under the threat that one might eventually be upgraded to Mrs. Watson and put an end to their particular brand of cohabitation? John understood them now, the long, sad glances Sherlock had levelled at him when he thought John wasn’t aware. Pining, that was the term. Sherlock had suffered silently, his demands veiled as fetch-and-carry and other innocent seeming requirements of John’s presence, never disclosing what he really wanted for fear of upsetting and alienating John and ultimately driving him away. Even more, he’d sacrificed everything he cherished to save John’s life, without any confirmation that he’d ever make it back to Baker Street, or be welcome there once more. And yet he’d do it all again in a heartbeat, John was sure of it. John felt very humble of a sudden. How on earth did he deserve devotion like this? He was lucky to have acquired the friendship of that singularly remarkable man. And now it appeared that said man was profoundly, genuinely in love with him, even if this love included toxic experiments in their kitchen and moody tantrums on a regular basis.  
  
He cast a glance at Sherlock’s profile illuminated by his phone’s bright glow, and at their reflections in the window. The train had long set into motion and behind their faint mirror images London’s East End was rushing past as they were nearing Stratford.  
  
“Are you worried about Moran or what you gleaned of my sex-life?” asked Sherlock without lifting his eyes from his mobile’s screen.  
  
John flushed and licked his lips. He should have known better than to believe Sherlock wouldn’t notice what was occupying his mind. He cast a glance around the carriage but the few people occupying it were either asleep or were listening to music.  
  
“Er,” he muttered, clearing his throat, “the latter, actually. And I’m not worried.”  
  
“Surprised?” asked Sherlock, lowering the device and gazing at John, one eyebrow raised in challenge.  
  
“A bit, yeah. Touched, too. Very much so, in fact. To be the only one to ... you know …”  
  
“Stimulate my imagination?” enquired Sherlock airily. John was sure he was being teased, and that moreover Sherlock was enjoying himself tremendously at his expense.    
  
John grinned, happy to play along since experience had shown that humour always made these things less awkward. “Yep, precisely. Hope you’re not secretly spying on me when I’m in the shower to get the right visuals.”  
  
Sherlock smiled. “You do realise that our bathroom has a glass door towards my bedroom.”  
  
“It’s frosted glass.”  
  
“Not altogether frosted.”  
  
They gazed at each other and simultaneously started to chuckle. “Well, as long as you like what you see,” said John, leaning back with a smug smile and reaching for his paper cup again.  
  
“Very much,” muttered Sherlock, his expression soft and tender for a moment before he bit his lip and, as if to hide his genuine admittance of sentiment, he dove for his coffee and took a long draught.  
  
John’s smile broadened.  
  
“Have a look if you can find anything about the area around Rendlesham apart from these wild UFO theories,” said Sherlock as he set down his cup again. “Before the internet connection dies again.”

  
**- <o>-**

  
They spent the remaining journey to Ipswich looking up notable places in Suffolk on the internet, whenever it worked, the connection patchy after they’d left the urban sprawl of London behind and were passing through the rolling Essex countryside, dark but for the occasional lights of farms and villages. John could tell that Sherlock was annoyed by the lack of the WiFi promised on the outside of the coach. He muttered something about them always being stuck on trains where the connection seemed to be down. John had to admit he had a point.  
  
John found the website of the Suffolk Punch Trust Katie had mentioned and had a look at their statement, the activities they offered and which mostly seemed geared towards families, and their animals. He was duly fascinated by their black pigs, some old and hardy breed, dark and bristly, with ears flopping over their eyes and up-turned snouts. They looked wild, somehow.  
  
The Millers also had a website, or a blog, rather. Apart from letting their Suffolk Punches star at events or in TV-documentaries, they mostly seemed to focus on breeding them and selling them on. They also offered horseback riding holidays for families and children during the summer months. Apparently they were planning to extend their farm and build another stable for their Suffolks and Icelandic horses with the view of adding some rare breeds of chicken and sheep, as well as a few pigs. There was also mention of extending the cider business and their vegetable garden and setting up a farm shop. Apparently they were very much into the sustainable production of food, working in cooperation with local restaurants and touristy places like Sutton Hoo to share and more efficiently use natural resources. John could see how there was future in that, given the craze for eco-food in London at the moment, and considering that the Miller’s farm was situated in an area that was popular with tourists and weekenders from the city.  
  
He showed his findings to Sherlock who, despite his earlier derisive announcement, had ended up on youtube and was waiting for a video to load which apparently featured interviews with “witnesses” of the UFO crash over thirty years ago.    
  
“They appear to be some of these genuinely nice and idealistic folks you often find in the eco-business,” reported John. “My sister had a girlfriend once who was into sustainable energies and all that, studying engineering specialising on wind power. She was like them. Very passionate about saving the planet, and inspiring in her enthusiasm. I’ve had a look at several sites that mention the Millers, and there’s not a bad word about them. They seem to have been around the area for a while. They moved to Suffolk some ten years ago, lived in Ipswich for a while and only bought the farm in 2009. By all accounts people get on well with them. They’re involved in the local community and everything. Katie even mentioned as much on the phone. The bonfire preparations, you remember? I really wonder who’s got it in for them so badly that they’d go as fas as poisoning their horses. It seems a very mean and utterly petty, useless thing, almost like a prank if it weren’t for doing real damage to their finances, especially with their prize stallion gone.”  
  
“Well, we’re about to find that out, aren’t we?” stated Sherlock, lifting his phone towards the window and shaking his head irritably, the connection apparently having died yet again.  
  
“There is bound to be some contention in the community, even a tightly knit one as this appears to be to the casual observer. And it’s far too early to form any theories. We haven’t even met the family yet, or seen their farm. I do hope they or Katie have a detailed map of the area, though. Pity you couldn’t get the OS map. Google is insufficient as it does not show details of the countryside.”  
  
He growled softly at his phone which apparently still refused to load the video, typed a short text message, then switched it off and slid it into the inner pocket of his coat. “This is pointless. Moreover we’re already leaving Colchester. We’ll be at Ipswich soon.”

  
**- <o>-**

  
There was no sign of Katie when they stepped out onto the draughty forecourt of Ipswich station. A stiff breeze was blowing from the south-west, carrying the smell of salt and mudflats from the nearby river Orwell. Apart from the wind chasing dried leaves and an empty Tesco plastic bag, the place seemed lifeless and deserted. The few people who had alighted the train together with John and Sherlock had quickly disappeared into taxis, or walked or cycled off into the orange-tinted gloom of the town.  
  
Zipping up his jacket, John buried his hands in the pockets. There were few cars about, and not even a taxi waiting in front of the building. He sighed, absently gazing at a poster offering communication courses, hoping they weren’t in for a long wait in this place.  
  
Sherlock had his mobile out again. “She hasn’t replied,” he said, frowning, but then his eyes lit up when a dark blue Volvo approached at considerable speed, pulling into one of the taxi stops. It was mud-splattered and sported a long scratch along one side, as well as a tattered pirate flag on the antenna.  
  
“Hope you didn’t have to wait long,” Katie greeted them as she got out of the car and walked around it to open the doors. “Best just throw your stuff onto the back seats as the boot is full of my equipment.”  
  
Noticing John’s glance at the old car, she smiled. “You were expecting something else, I take it?”  
  
He shrugged as he picked up Sherlock’s small hold-all and shoved it onto the rear bench, followed by his own rucksack. He then set to creating some space to seat himself by rearranging a man’s plaid jacket and a pair of old jeans, and shifting papers, a plastic water bottle, a box of iron horse-shoe nails and a pair of wellingtons from the footwell. A distinct smell of horse pervaded the car.  
  
“Yeah,” he admitted, “something more like a landrover or a pickup, given your profession and the fact you travel round rough farmyards a lot. How do you fit all your equipment in here?”  
  
She grinned. “It’s bigger on the inside,” she replied with a wink. “Put your seat forward a bit, Sherlock, so that John’s actually has some space for his legs. If you find anything strange under the seat, just give it a good kick.”  
  
Sherlock grunted and obliged, bending down to reach under the seat to find the lever. “Something is growing here,” he observed casually. Obviously intrigued, he hunched over to feel under the seat again.  
  
Katie chuckled. “Oh, that must be the oats. Some weeks ago Emma spilled some from a sack she was taking to a friend’s horse. There’s often a bit of moisture on the mat and bits of earth and manure. I told her to tidy up, but apparently she missed some.”  
  
“That must be the first car I’ve been in that has plants grow inside it,” stated John, searching for the seatbelt. “Wonder what’s living in the back.”  
  
“You’d be surprised,” chuckled Katie and started the engine. Her voice had turned more serious when she went on, “I really appreciate that you could come so quickly. Things have understandably been very chaotic. When I fetched Emma from her friend in Eyke she’d already heard about the foal’s disappearance. I guess Edmund must have texted her – he’s Susan’s and Peter’s son, and despite being some years younger than Emma she’s good friends with him and his sister.”  
  
“Is the sister called Lucy?” asked Sherlock.  
  
“Yes, in fact she is,” chuckled Katie. “It’s a bit of an in-joke. Apparently Edmund was named after Susan’s dad, and when a girl came along ... well, was a bit of an obvious choice, really.”  
  
“I’m surprised you made the connection,” commented John, before he remembered that Sherlock owned a book called Planet Narnia which bore traces of ardent perusal.  
  
Sherlock sniffed. “I am not completely oblivious of children’s popular literature, John,” he stated, “although I’ve always preferred Tolkien to Lewis. Any new information about the incident?” he then enquired of Katie.  
  
“No. Apparently they locked the stables after searching for the foal themselves and are now waiting for you to arrive. According to my knowledge the haven’t informed the police yet.”  
  
“Good,” remarked Sherlock. “To the bonfire preparations this afternoon, did they take their children with them?”  
  
“Yes, they did. Stuart and Linda Nayland were at the farm, however, to look after things and to do some renovating. They’re an elderly couple who live in a cottage about a mile away, across the road to Butley. They sometimes help out with things like apple harvest or hay-making, or simply by looking after the farm when the Millers are away for a day or two. They also cooperate on agricultural issues. Stuart breeds chickens and Linda is very much into beekeeping and looks after an orchard of rare plum- and peartrees and makes jams and liqueurs. There was talk about them selling their products at the farm-shop once that’s been set up.”  
  
“Interesting,” commented Sherlock. John wasn’t able to see his expression, but he assumed that the remark about beekeeping had piqued his interest. “I will need to talk to them, of course.”  
  
“I doubt they’ll be around at this time still, but you can do so tomorrow. Oh, damn it,” Katie then exclaimed, braking sharply because a white SUV had cut across her in a roundabout. “You can tell we’re close to the border of Essex. People round here can’t drive, especially those idiots who try to compensate their deficits in other areas by the size and bulk of their cars.”  
  
John smiled, her comment on SUVs reminding him of a similar one of Sherlock’s who hated this type of car with a burning passion which even exceeded his loathing of motorcycles and their owners. “Guess you’re getting a lot of weekenders out of London in these parts.”  
  
“Yes, we do. Both a blessing and a curse, really. Places like Aldeburgh and Woodbridge are popular with the crowds, and there’s of course some major tourism going on at Sutton Hoo, particularly in the summer months. There’s also an increasing number of wealthy city-folks buying cottages and even entire farms. Property prices have soared in recent years. On the one hand it’s good for the area, of course. These people spend a lot of money in communities, helping businesses of all kinds. More than one old and listed building has been saved that way, because they can afford to renovate and invest when others can’t. On the other hand you sometimes wish all those city-people would just bugger off to where they came from.”  
  
She sounded bitter, so John inquired, “Why that? The way you described them, they’re doing more good than harm.”  
  
Katie shrugged. “They tend to mess around with things they don’t understand, trying to tell people how things are done ’properly’. The discussions I’ve had with horse-owners from London over the years about proper hoof-care ... don’t get me started on that. They get some brilliant ideas from books or the latest TV-programme, and bam! Suddenly they’re experts. Or they accuse you of mistreating their precious animals because you don’t pamper them but suggest things that a) actually work, b) keep them healthy and fit, and c) treat them like the animals they are, not some misplaced notion of another family member or even child replacement.”  
  
She sighed. “But now it’s off season, luckily. It’s mostly locals now, and perhaps the odd bird watcher down at Orford Ness.”  
  
“Do you still get people trying to visit the UFO crash-site?” asked Sherlock.  
  
Katie laughed. “Not that I know. You’d have to ask Stuart and Linda about that. They’re from Woodbridge originally and have spent most of their lives in the area – apart from three years travelling Asia in the seventies –, so they’d know a lot more about what happened here decades ago. Personally I don’t believe in any of that stuff despite my love of science fiction. There is an UFO hiking trail in Rendlesham forest, but it’s geared towards kids. I can show you on a map, should you be interested in trying it out. By now the army bases have mostly been turned into business estates and industrial areas, or are simply kept deserted to preserve wildlife. If you’re interested in that kind of stuff, however, I recommend a visit to the old radar station down at Bawdsey. There was another small airfield there, and they now sometimes do guided tours for tourists. Oh, come to think of it, I remember hearing there’s a group of locals meeting once a month or so to speculate about the aliens, but to me this always seemed just an excuse to hang out at the pub.”  
  
“I’ve had a look at your friends’ blog,” said John when Sherlock didn’t come up with another question. “Do you have any idea who has it in for them so badly? They seem genuinely nice folks.”  
  
“They are. A bit too idealistic, sometimes, but I feel very lucky to be able to call them my friends and count on their support. I’ve asked myself the same question over and over. Perhaps it’s something to do with their farm and the land it’s on. I remember Susan telling me once that there were other interested parties when they acquired it, and that they had to borrow money from her parents and Peter’s to prevent being outbid. But that was years ago.”  
  
“Has the value of the land changed in any way, apart from the normal increase in property prices you described?” asked Sherlock.  
  
“You’d have to ask the Millers or a local estate agent. I do recall they’ve been to several community meetings in recent months concerning that piece of land they bought more recently. They had to spend more on it then they had calculated – more than it was originally valued at, too –, because suddenly there were other interested parties and the owner saw a chance for making profit.”  
  
“But they did buy it, in the end?” enquired John.  
  
“Yes, in July, I think. They haven’t done much with it, though, because there was much to do over the summer. I think they were planning to start work in Spring.”  
  
“Interesting,” mused Sherlock. “We’ll have to find out who these other bidders were, and why they were suddenly so keen on the land. Is it arable? Could it be used for pasture?”  
  
“At the moment it’s mostly wilderness, really, bordering on the Miller’s estate and encompassing a stretch of heathland that according to my knowledge was used for army exercises when the troops were still settled here in full force. It does have a natural stream, though, making it good pasture land for hardy breeds like sheep and goats, or certain breeds of pony. The Millers bought it for their Icelanders to spend part of the winter as it offers natural shelter in the form of copses of birch and pine, and clumps of gorse.”  
  
“Makes sense,” commented John. “But who else would want it? It doesn’t sound like something your average farmer would be interested in.”  
  
“I’m sure the Millers can tell you who bid against them, and maybe even for what purpose those people wanted to buy it. But whether any of them would go as far as poison their horses, especially now that the actual sale has been over for months … I don’t know.” Katie shrugged and sighed.  
  
“For the moment we shall need to follow all possible trails of enquiry,” said Sherlock, huffing softly and turning his head to gaze out of the window, as if in sign that the others should kindly shut up now and let him think.  
  
-<o>-  
  
Thus the talk died down as they left the outskirts of Ipswich behind and joined an almost empty A12 to follow it eastward. Katie switched on the radio, and the soft music combined with the dull roar of the Volvo made John sleepy. It had been a long day, after all. Before he closed his eyes – just to rest them, mind you –, he saw that Sherlock had switched on his mobile again.  
  
John woke with start from his unplanned nap when the car rumbled over a set of tracks at a railroad crossing. He rubbed his eyes and yawned, sitting up straighter, tugging at his seatbelt which had left a mark on his cheek. According to his watch it was quarter past one.  
  
“It’s not far now,” announced Katie, turning left at a small roundabout. “We don’t actually live in Rendlesham, the Millers and I. Their farm is actually much closer to Eyke and the forest, and mine is the cottage attached to their land.”  
  
“Did you know them before you moved here?” asked Sherlock.  
  
“Actually, yes, through Susan. We’d communicated online for a while in the Star Wars fandom, back when we were both at uni and fandom related things mostly existed in newsgroups and on message-boards. Turned out she was interested in historical reenactment as well, so we met at some events. But ending up as neighbours was more or less coincidental.”  
  
“They must be glad about you doing so much to help them in their present plight,” remarked John.  
  
“We’re good friends, and they’ve been there for me and Emma when we really needed someone. Things were pretty hard after Andrew’s death, mostly because he was gone so suddenly, just ripped out of our midst, without any chance of saying goodbye.”  
  
John nodded gravely. “I know exactly what you mean,” he said, more bitterly than he intended. Sherlock made a small sound but refrained from commenting.  
  
Something in John’s voice seemed to have touched Katie. She gave him a sympathetic glance over her shoulder. John wondered whether she knew about Sherlock’s ’death’, either from visiting his blog or because Molly had told her. He was grateful she didn’t bring up the matter, however.  
  
“As I’ve mentioned before,” she explained instead, “Emma and I went through some rough times. Things have improved, but still aren’t back to how they were … before. I sometimes wonder if they’ll ever be. But anyway, back then we barely spoke with each other, and when we did it was mostly arguing over trifles. She avoided me most of the time, and I was so wrapped up both in my own grief and my work and the renovations to the cottage Andrew had begun before his last assignment that I was actually glad about not having her around and under my feet all the time. Bad step-mother, I know. At least when she wasn’t home I knew she’d be next door at the farm, either looking after the horses or mucking out stables, or simply hiding away in the hay somewhere with the Millers’ dog keeping her company. With the help of Edmund and Lucy and her friend Anne from Eyke they’d created a kind of cave between some of the bales in the hayloft and there she more or less lived for a week after the funeral. Luckily that was during the summer holidays so she didn’t have to attend school. The other children provided her with food and drink and blankets, and a battery pack for her phone, and I came round twice a day to see if she needed anything, only to be told to bugger off. When she emerged again things got a bit better between us, but are still a little tense. And now with her favourite mare dead and the foal gone …,” she sighed. “I really hope she’s not planning to camp out in the hay again, in November.”  
  
“I’m sure we can prevent that,” Sherlock assured her with surprising gentleness. John wondered given what he’d revealed about his own parents and his reaction to their separation, and moreover his grief about his beloved grandmother’s death all those years ago, whether he had also fled his home and spent time hidden away on his own. John, certainly, had felt like doing so after his father had passed away but had never actually managed to, too caught up in trying to keeping the rest of the family together and failing, losing his mother, as he’d thought back then, to another man, and his sister to her own relationship problems, and eventually to her addiction to the bottle.  
  
He gazed out of the window at the dark countryside rushing past, broken only occasionally by the odd car, and the lights of houses twinkling between the bare trees to either side of the road. It always struck him how dark the night sky actually was without the light pollution from a large city like London. Away in the west a dim orange glow indicated where Ipswich lay, but to the east there was darkness. No stars were visible due to fast-moving clouds. There was no moon, either, new moon having been the previous night. The darkness reminded John of Afghanistan, the clear, cold nights out in the desert or the mostly barren mountains.  
  
They passed through a small village, Eyke, John managed to read on the sign when the headlights illuminated it briefly. It just consisted of a few low houses lined up along the road like beads on a piece of string. Behind the village Katie indicated right and they left the road, following a narrow lane towards a darker patch of land which seemed to be a line of trees or a forest. Dark hedgerows rushed past, dense like bristly walls, encroaching onto the road on both sides. At one point a pair of eyes met John’s briefly, the car’s lights reflected in them before they vanished in the gloom.  
  
“Badger,” commented Sherlock.  
  
“Oh, there are plenty around here,” said Katie. “I hope they won’t start culling them like they do in other places. You see a lot of wildlife in these parts. Most live in the copses and thickets and hedgerows. Sadly, a considerable number end up as roadkill. But then, rabbits and particularly pheasants can be so utterly stupid that sometimes you can’t avoid hitting them.”  
  
“Must be good for hunting, though,” mused Sherlock.  
  
“Oh yes, there are hunts. Particularly in the autumn you have to be careful where you tread in the forest and on the heathlands so as not to get your backside riddled with bullets. Next weekend there’s one, down at Hollesley. Not a real fox-hunt, mind. I’m glad they got rid of those, although some of the locals were protesting, even running a petition. Right, here we are. This lane straight ahead leads to my cottage. It’s just a couple of yards, behind those trees. But I reckon you’ll want to see the farm right away.”  
  
They had reached a crossroads. Katie turned right again, following the road as it dipped into a shallow valley where a large farmstead was situated. Its buildings spread out to both sides of the lane. A large tractor with a trailer was standing in front of some sheds to the right while the majority of the farmyard seemed to extend to the left. Thence Katie headed, gravel crunching under her car’s tyres as they approached a two-winged, two-storied building of red brick and white-framed windows. To both sides of the drive were stables, a large barn, and, as far as John could see in the light of two strong lamps attached to the outbuildings, some paddocks and what looked like an orchard. In an island in the driveway in front of the main building a large tree grew, its scantily leafed branches swaying in the wind. Behind the farm was deep darkness: forest or heathland, John surmised, or meadows for the Millers’ horses.  
  
The front door opened when Katie stopped the car and a large dog trundled out, blinking in the headlights and then leisurely ambling over to the driver’s side. Apparently this was some kind of ritual. The dog didn’t look particularly ferocious despite its enormous size and shaggy coat – in fact it seemed quite old and a bit slow – but after their adventure in Dartmoor and the recent encounter with the terrier up on Hampstead Heath John was a bit suspicious of canines. However, Katie stepped out of the car and greeted the dog friendlily, letting it lick her hand and nuzzle her leg.  
  
“Hi, Lizzy,” she said, rubbing the dog’s ears. “You didn’t see anything strange today, did you? No strangers around?”  
  
The dog, a mixture of an Irish wolfhound and several other breeds John couldn’t define gave her a grave look, licked her hand once more and then ambled off to greet Sherlock who had just gotten out of the car and was flipping up the collar of the Belstaff, the wind ruffling his hair. John hurried to join him, to keep Lizzy at bay should she become too friendly. She stood sniffing Sherlock’s coat and to John’s surprise, Sherlock extended a gloved hand and petted her gingerly on the head once. Thus apparently acquaintance was made, and Lizzy came round to say hello to John.  
  
“Oh, don’t mind her, she’s peaceful,” a voice sounded from the door, speaking in a faint Yorkshire accent.  
  
“So we noticed,” remarked Sherlock dryly, drawing his coat more tightly around himself. Indeed it was colder here than in central London, John noticed. The wind was stronger and bore a distinct smell of the sea, salty and clean. It mingled with the typical farmyard smells, hay and manure and wet earth, and a whiff of something which John described to himself as wild, sharp and pungent, wood and moss and wet bracken: the forest.  
  
A man had appeared in the doorway, while a woman had stepped forward to call the dog to heel. Both were around John’s own age, early forties, he reckoned, and were dressed in jeans and jumpers and thick woollen socks, which quickly were swallowed by muddy Wellingtons standing next to the door. The woman was tall, almost as tall as Sherlock, and strong in build, her blond hair short, a practical haircut. Her face was round and, despite signs of recent worry, generally cheerful with many fine, crinkly lines round her eyes. The man was tall, too, had a short beard, curly red-tinged hair receding from his forehead. He wore glasses on his freckled nose, and seemed rather a lightweight next to his wife, albeit a strong and wiry one.  
  
“Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson,” the woman greeted them, “thank you so much for coming, especially at this late hour. When Katie told us you’d agreed to look into this case we couldn’t have been happier.” She extended a hand and shook first Sherlock’s then John’s firmly. “I’m Susan, this is my husband Peter. Please, come in.”  
  
“I should like to see the crime-scene ...– I mean the stables the foal disappeared from – right away,” announced Sherlock. “If you don’t mind,” he added with an afterthought and John smiled slightly to himself. Sherlock had switched into full case mode and yet hadn’t entirely forgotten his manners. How he had changed.  
  
The Millers and Katie exchanged a surprised glance. “Of course, of course,” said Peter. “We didn’t change anything, although of course we searched for her in the stables and so walked around there a fair bit which in retrospect wasn’t the wisest of things. This way.”  
  
“You can leave your stuff in the car,” Katie told John. “We’ll be heading to my place later, anyway.”  
  
Shutting the car door and inconspicuously adjusting the gun in his waistband, John followed the others towards the larger of the stables, Lizzy the dog trotting next to him. He reached out to scratch her head which she seemed to appreciate.

  
**- <o>-**

  
A strong lamp automatically switched on as they approached the door of the largest of the outbuildings. Unlike the barns and sheds John had noticed on the other side of the lane which seemed to be more recent additions, the stable-building was of similar style and material as the farmhouse, but had apparently been modernised. The large wooden doors were secured by a padlock, another recent addition judging from its looks.  
  
Peter unlocked it and slid the door open, and went inside to switch on the overhead lights. They came to life with a humming sound. As he took another step inside a tabby cat shot out between his legs and vanished round the corner of the building. Then he stepped aside and motioned for Sherlock to follow while Susan appeared next to John to hold back an inquisitive Lizzy.  
  
Sherlock had already readied his magnifier and had crouched down on the threshold to study the stone floor which was flagged with bricks of different shades in a fishbone pattern, with drainage channels to both sides, apparently a remainder of the old stable-building. “Are all your horses shod?” he asked.  
  
“Most are, both the Suffolks and Icelanders,” replied Susan. “All those we use either for work or for riding. But Ælthelflæd – the foal – wasn’t, of course, although Katie has been looking after her hooves regularly.”  
  
Sherlock nodded and slowly moved inside the stable. John followed to gaze over his shoulder and get an idea of the interior of the building. He saw a long corridor from which stalls of different sizes were separated off to both sides, smaller, empty ones to the right – for the Icelanders, presumably –, and a number of wide ones with metal sliding doors to the left which were partly occupied. All were marked with colourful name-plates that looked like they had been drawn and lettered by children. To the far end of the building on the right side a separate room could be described behind a large if somewhat dusty window. John saw metal fittings blink in the light. He surmised the room contained tack and equipment for work or riding.  
  
Right next to the main door to both sides of the main corridor were smaller compartments. As he stepped closer, through the open doors John saw an assortment of sacks with oats, salt-blocks stacked on a shelf, and some rectangular bales of hay in the one to the left, as well as a plate of cat-food and a bowl of water. In the one to the right he spotted two batteries, wire and staves for fencing, several rope halters hanging on hooks, some baskets with brushes and hoof-cleaners as well as other gear and tack John couldn’t immediately identify but which looked like ribbons and combs, perhaps for the braiding of manes and tails. On a blackboard names and numbers had been written with coloured chalks. Next to it was a cork pinboard with brightly coloured ribbons apparently won at local competitions, next to photographs of horses, children, several cats, Lizzy decorated with a large straw hat, and a small girl proudly riding the huge tractor. One picture caused John to step closer: it showed Katie on the bare back of a large chestnut horse, a laughing girl in front of her. John surmised that this must be Emma. The photo was several years old since the girl looked about eight or nine. She was tall for her age, though, with light brown hair tied in a pony-tail that sneaked out from under her riding-helmet, a round face with large green eyes and some faint freckles on her nose.    
  
Returning to the main corridor, John took in the rest of the building. Up in the ceiling above one of the empty stalls was what looked like a trap-door, likely to shove down bales from the hayloft. To his surprise, John noticed that the horse-stalls were only separated by low metal or wooden walls, meaning animals in neighbouring boxes could interact with each other without a wall or metal bars separating them. He reckoned that given that horses were herd animals it was a more appropriate way of keeping them indoors, but he also mused what a racket they might cause if two exercised their rivalries in such a confined space.  
  
The air was warm and smelled of hay and the animals, and there was a constant rustling as they shifted in their stalls. Soft snorting noises as if in greeting sounded when Sherlock stepped forward and approached the first occupied stall, walking slowly and deliberately and scanning both floor and the metal doors to either side carefully. John followed at a distance, more interested in the horses themselves than their surroundings.  
  
Apparently some of the animals had been resting before the lights had been switched on. Now they struggled to their feet with grunts and snorts. One by one large chestnut heads with straw-coloured manes were raised over the metal divisions between the stalls, ears pricked, eyes glinting and attentive. All in all John counted six horses, one somewhat smaller than the others: a yearling. Nevertheless even this younger horse already had the size of an ordinary one, while the other five were both taller and broader, their necks thick and round and well-muscled, and their solemn faces hung with fine chestnut hair like beards. Three had white markings on their heads.  
  
Sherlock gave them a once-over, nodded to himself, then descended onto the floor again, looking for hoof-marks, perhaps, although John wasn’t sure if he’d be successful. There were traces of hay and straw all over it, and muck, too, despite the main corridor showing signs of being swept regularly. Now and then white scuff-mark from horse-shoes were visible even to John’s untrained eye. However, he was sure Sherlock was able to pick up far more information. John decided to leave him to it and made his way over to the first occupied stall.  
  
On his way he passed two empty ones, according to the name-plates the ones of Ælfgifu and her foal. Rædwald’s seemed to have been the last one in line at the other end of the stable where it was shut by another set of sliding doors. Not all names of the Punches seemed to follow the Old English pattern. John grinned when he read the others: there were Fred and George, Ronald, Molly and Ginny, and Pippilotta.  
  
“All famous redheads,” Katie who had joined him in front of the stalls told him with a wink, “although three of them were bought from the Trust at Hollesley, and their actual names are a bit more formal.”  
  
“All the horses can move freely in their stalls?” asked Sherlock over his shoulder, straightening from his crouching position. John noticed that the hem of his coat had picked up some stalks of hay but Sherlock, usually so fastidious about his attire, didn’t seem to care. “Or do they usually wear halters and are tied to something.”  
  
“No, the stalls were designed so that they can roam a bit in them despite their size, and lie down comfortably as well,” explained Peter. “They can also interact with each other to some degree if they want to, although we have to be careful who we put next to each other sometimes. Rivalries in the herd and all that. And of course mares and their foals have to be separated for a while when the foals are weened.”  
  
Sherlock stepped over to the Ælthelflæd’s stall and studied the door and its opening mechanism. “Was it open when you arrived and found the foal gone?”  
  
“No, not really,” answered Susan. “But whoever opened it didn’t shut it properly again. It was drawn by, but the latch hadn’t been shut. But the horse itself couldn’t have done it, obviously. The door mechanisms are designed in a way so that even the most ingenious animal can’t open them.”  
  
“I see,” mused Sherlock. He reached out to slide the door open, first using one hand but almost immediately employing the other one as well since the door seemed either quite heavy or stuck on something. Slowly scanning the straw-strewn floor of the stall, he stepped inside.  
  
“Did it rain here today?”  
  
“There was some heavy drizzle in the afternoon,” said Susan. “We had to spend some time indoors when we were preparing the bonfire, and wait for it to abate. It’s been quite windy all day, too.”  
  
Sherlock nodded, crouching down to take a closer look at the bedding and picking up odd bits of hay and straw and the odd leaf, and finally some crumbs of what remotely looked liked cake or digestives. He sniffed them, then to John’s astonishment he nibbled on a piece before holding the remains up on the palm of his gloved hand. “Horse treats. Mostly oats with other grains and seeds mixed in, as well as hay and something fruity, rose-hip I think. Do you keep any of this kind here?”  
  
“Yes. Up in the front storage room. We make them ourselves. You’re right about the contents, too,” replied Peter, obviously impressed. John smiled to himself. Even though he had witnessed Sherlock do his thing countless times, he never failed to be impressed as well.  
  
“Did the foal suffer strangers in her box?” enquired Sherlock, still digging around in the bedding.  
  
“She was still quite shy and very lively,” replied Susan thoughtfully. “I doubt a complete stranger would have had easy game catching her to put a halter on her, even in the confines of this stall that would have limited her movement. Even we had to come in twos sometimes to get her. Although she’s still only a few months old, she’s quite tall and strong. Headstrong, too.”  
  
Sherlock rose and cast a glance round the building again. Then he swept out his phone and took several photographs of the ground. John wondered whether he saw anything more in it than a mess of straw and manure. “Where does the rear door open to?”  
  
“Towards our orchards and some of the meadows where we keep the Icelanders,” said Peter. “There is a track leading there. We have a fishpond, too. Beyond that there are some hedged-in fields and a bit of heathland we sometimes use for pasture for the ponies, and then there’s the forest. Right behind the stable are some more buildings, too.”  
  
“The track, is it covered with flint shingle, too, like your drive?”  
  
“Only the first bit near the buildings. Makes it easier to navigate with the tractor and other farm vehicles. We have our apple-press in the building behind the stables. When it’s harvest time in September and October people drive over with their apples to have them pressed into juice and bagged.”  
  
“Bagged?” asked John.  
  
“Yes. It’s a fairly new thing,” explained Peter with a measure of pride. “Our machine washes and shreds the apples and presses them, and then the juice is immediately pasteurised and filled into bags. Vacuum-sealed, you understand. Saves a lot of time because people don’t have to bottle their juice themselves and heat it to pasteurise it.”  
  
“Oh, I see,” said John, recognising the idea behind the packaging, “like some of the wine you get at the supermarket. It’s packaged in boxes instead of bottles. Makes it easier to store, too.”  
  
“Yes, indeed. Sometimes people bring their own plastic containers as well if they want to make cider, and of course we produce our own and don’t pasteurise all of the juice. But it’s a good thing for the locals and helps keep the old orchards alive. But to get back to what you’ve been asking, Mr. Ho– Sherlock, this part of the backyard is indeed covered with flint. We also store some of the hay and straw and the working gear – ploughs and carts – for training the Suffolks in those sheds. But once it leaves the farmyard the track is just earth and grass – and mud, at this time of year and particularly after the storm we’ve just had. Last year we filled in the deepest ruts and puddles with some flint and may need to do so again next spring.”  
  
“Did you check your front courtyard for any tracks that could have been from a car and horse-trailer?” asked Sherlock.  
  
“Yes, actually we did,” answered Susan, “but unfortunately only after we’d driven over it at least once. And since it’s mostly flint, there is very little you can see in terms of imprints. And when we returned from Rendlesham it was already dusk, so there wasn’t much to be seen. It’s highly unlikely someone came round with a car, however. Our friends were here all the time, and although they were up in the house painting one of the guest rooms you hear if any vehicle comes along on the drive because the shingle is quite noisy. Also, Æthelflæd has been in horse-trailer only once, and that was before she was weened and in the company of her mother to keep her calm. On her own, in combination with her lively character, loading her into a trailer would have been a nightmare. It would have been extremely unlikely for her to have gone willingly and quickly without any fuss, even with a bag over her head.”  
  
“Could they have come round the rear and loaded her in there?” asked John. “Or tranquillised her, perhaps even from a distance, with a dart?”  
  
“That’s of course possible, but we had a look there, too. There were no new tracks, as far as we could make out with what light was left. I can’t imagine she was tranquillised, either. Unlike a pony-foal, it would have been difficult even for two people to carry her over any distance.”  
  
Sherlock glanced over to the wheel-barrow standing in the middle of the corridor but then shook his head. John couldn’t imagine that someone could cart a tranquillised horse around in it, particularly not a breed like a Suffolk Punch.  
  
“You searched all your outbuildings, I take it?” enquired Sherlock as he left the stall, went a few paces and hunkered down next to the heap of hay in front of three of the Suffolks’ stalls. John heard Peter mutter something like “Might as well feed them the rest”, upon which he and Katie picked up the pitchforks leaning against the wall near the entrance and began to hoist hay into the mangers in the stalls. The horses, however, seemed unimpressed by this action despite the prospect of food arriving.  
  
John grinned when he noticed what was going on near the floor where Sherlock was crouching. Three brown heads were bent down towards him, and three sets of soft nostrils were nosing at his hair and coat. One horse even started to experimentally nibble on his hair. Sherlock didn’t even seem to notice, bent intently over his magnifier and holding up various dry stalks and leaves to study them.  
  
“Found anything?” asked John quietly, crouching opposite him and raising a hand to fend off an inquisitive horse that seemed very interested in his ear.  
  
“Bits and pieces,” muttered Sherlock without looking up, rummaging in the bottomless pockets of his coat until he unearthed a plastic evidence bag. John watched him deposit several plants and leaves inside. “But it’s too early to form theories. I need to see the grounds, particularly behind this building. I also need to talk to the Naylands. We have to wait for daylight before we can investigate further, I’m afraid.”  
  
“Well, given the hour, I’m all for calling it a day,” agreed John, absently rubbing the nose of one of the horses. “Do you need to question Peter and Susan tonight, or can this wait for tomorrow as well?”  
  
“I’d like to, but it looks like they have other obligations right now.”  
Sherlock rose and nodded towards the stable door, where two small figures dressed in too large jackets over their pyjamas had appeared, one holding the hand of the other, with the smaller clutching a donkey pillow for additional support. John surmised those were the Miller children.  
  
“Lucy’s had a bad dream,” the boy, Edmund, announced, stepping into the building in his bright green wellingtons and gently dragging his sister after him. John estimated his age to be eight or nine, and his sister’s five or six.  
  
“Who are they?” asked Lucy, waving her donkey in John’s and Sherlock’s general direction.  
  
“They are detectives from London,” explained Peter, walking over to them. “They have come to find Æthelflæd, and find out who killed Rædi and Ælfi."  
  
The children exchanged a glance. “Are you policemen?” asked Edmund, his eyes narrowed as he studied the two, his gaze lingering on Sherlock’s Belstaff-enhanced figure. “You don’t look like policemen. Do you have a badge?”  
  
John bit his lip, expecting Sherlock to produce one of those he had nicked from Lestrade. But Sherlock shook his head. “I am a consulting detective,” he explained. “I help the police from time to time.”  
  
“Like Kalle Blomkvist?” asked Lucy, her eyes shining with sudden fascination.  
  
“Who?” asked Sherlock, casting a questioning glance at John who shrugged in turn. Whoever this mysterious detective was, he hadn’t heard of him. The name sounded Scandinavian, but he didn’t expect children of this young age to be familiar with Danish or Swedish crime dramas, dark and disturbing as they often were.  
  
“He’s a detective, too,” added Lucy helpfully. “And a knight of the White Rose. And they fight the Red Rose. And they eat sweet buns all the time because Eva-Lotta’s daddy is a baker.”  
  
Susan laughed and shook her head, walking over and tugging the jacket more closely round the girl. “Lucy, I doubt Sherlock knows your favourite books. Come on, you two, back to bed. You have school tomorrow.”  
  
“Today,” Edmund corrected his mother. He was still eyeing Sherlock intently, a slight frown creasing his freckled forehead. “You have a funny name.”  
  
“Edmund,” Peter admonished him gently. “That’s quite rude.”  
  
“But true,” stated Sherlock, to John’s slight surprise. “You should hear my brother’s.”  
  
“What’s he called?” asked Edmund as together they set in motion to leave the stable.  
  
“I’ll tell you in the morning.”  
  
“Does your friend have a funny name, too?” asked Lucy round a massive yawn, her small hand in her father’s large one.  
  
“I’m John,” answered John. “Not very funny as names go, I guess.”  
  
“His second name is funny, though,” added Sherlock.  
  
“Will you tell this in the morning too?” Edmund wanted to know.  
  
“Perhaps.”  
  
The boy nodded thoughtfully, trudging through a puddle. “What will happen to the bad people who killed Rædi and Ælfi? Will they go to prison?”  
  
“Most likely, yes. At least they will have to pay a lot of money.”  
  
“And if you don’t find them?”  
  
“Unlikely.”  
  
The boy nodded again. “And the people who took Flædi? Will they go to prison, too.”  
  
“Well,” replied Sherlock sternly, “they are thieves. Thieves usually go to prison when they are caught.”  
  
“Will they be handcuffed?”  
  
“If they try to run away.”  
  
Edmunds face set grim. “I think they should be handcuffed. And ride in the police car. With the siren on.”  
  
“I am sure this can be arranged once we catch them,” said Sherlock. John saw how the corner of his mouth twitched in a smile. “But of course first we must find and catch them.”  
  
Edmund was silent for a while as they reached the door of the main farmhouse and the Millers divested themselves of their footwear.  
  
“Come on in,” Susan invited John and Sherlock, and also waved at Katie who had locked the stable behind them and had brought up the rear with Lizzy the dog at her side. “I’ll make some tea, or coffee if you like.”  
  
“Can we have some hot chocolate?” asked Lucy.  
  
“No, you two have already brushed your teeth. It’s back to bed for you.”  
  
“We can brush again,” suggested Lucy slyly, making hopeful eyes at her mother, and, when Susan frowned, at her father who gently shook his head.  
  
“Off, now, you two,” Susan told them with mock sternness, pointing towards the wooden staircase that wound up to the right behind the door. “I’ll be there in a moment, and you’d better be abed then.”  
  
The children grumbled, and reluctantly began to climb the stairs. Before they were completely out of sight, however, Edmund stuck his head through the bannister. “Have you solved any murders?” he asked Sherlock. “Like, of dead people.”  
  
“Yes, loads.”  
  
This apparently found the boy’s approval and he vanished, talking excitedly to his sister as they climbed the rest of the stairs, although John could not catch their words. Apparently Sherlock had made an impression, as he so often did on children. Interestingly, he had treated them civilly, even willingly engaged in conversation. And they appeared to like him. But then, most children liked him even when he was his most obnoxious self. And secretly, although he would never admit it, Sherlock liked them, too. John sometimes thought he got on better with humans under twelve years of age than with those over it.  
  
Susan invited them to continue into the house.  
  
“Erm, should we …?" enquired John, looking down at his shoes which despite a thorough wipe on the mat were still somewhat dirty.  
  
“Leave them on,” said Susan. “The floor is cold and you're only wearing thin socks. This way.”  
  
They followed a short, stone-flagged corridor that had three carved wooden doors opening off to the left. The wall to the right was panelled with wood. There was another door, apparently of a small cupboard situated under the stairs which made John think of Harry Potter. The corridor led into a large kitchen. If John had had to describe how he imagined the Millers’ home to look like based on what information he had gained about them from their blog, it would not have been much different from the room he was ushered into. It was plain to see that much of the family’s life was spent in this kitchen and round the large wooden table with the assortment of different chairs. It brought on another Harry Potter reminiscence, as it reminded him of the Weasley family’s kitchen with its mixture of IKEA and vintage furniture, the colourful pottery on the shelves, the old hearth, the fridge-door plastered with children's drawings and primary school crafts, the pots of herbs on the windowsill. It looked lived in, cluttered, slightly chaotic but tidy in the strange but effective way busy people organise their surroundings, warm and comfortable. In John it evoked a similar feeling like when he had first set foot into 221B. Despite Sherlock’s mess, he had immediately felt at home.  
  
“Have a seat,” Susan invited them. “Don’t mind the chaos.”  
  
“Oh, it’s worse at home,” said John. “At least you don’t seem to have any dangerous chemicals on the kitchen table or body parts in the fridge.”  
  
“If you don’t count the chicken for tomorrow’s dinner, that’s correct,” said Peter dryly. “I’ll see to the children,” he then informed his wife, who nodded and switched on the kettle. “Tea, coffee? Hot chocolate?”  
  
“Tea is fine,” replied John. Sherlock still hadn’t taken a seat but had stepped over to the sink to gaze out of the window behind it.  
  
“It looks out over our vegetable garden and part of the orchard,” explained Susan as she rinsed an earthenware tea-pot that took at least four pints, while Katie fetched mugs, a sugar bowl, and a tin of biscuits.  
  
“The room your friends the Naylands were busy in this afternoon,” asked Sherlock, letting his gaze sweep the kitchen, “what part of the farm can one overlook from there? It’s upstairs, I take it?”  
  
“Actually, no. It’s down here, next to the main door. It overlooks the driveway and the forecourt, and part of the stable, although that is somewhat obscured by the chestnut tree. But as I said, they would have heard anybody arriving, particularly by car. They were painting the walls and were likely having the windows open.”  
  
“So whoever took Æthelflæd must have come round the back of the stable?” asked Katie, shovelling brown sugar into her mug before taking a seat.  
  
“It’s likely,” mused Sherlock, finally shedding his coat and hanging it over the back of a chair. He pulled it from under the table to take a seat, before noticing that it was already occupied. The tabby cat from the stable had curled up on the pillow and was eyeing him suspiciously, spreading its front legs possessively over the pillow. Sherlock frowned briefly, then picked up the cat deftly, and sat down. John expected him to put it down onto the floor, but instead Sherlock deposited it on his lap. The cat gave him a haughty glance which he ignored, turned round itself a few times then lay down again. Sherlock continued to ignore it. “But as I said,” he went on, “I need to wait for daylight to look for tracks.”  
  
“What shall we do about the police?” enquired Susan.  
  
“Don’t get them involved just yet,” cautioned Sherlock. “At least not until I haven’t seen everything that might give us a clue about the identity of the thief. The nearest constabulary is in Woodbridge?”  
  
“Yes,” said Katie. “Not the brightest candles on the cake, if you ask me.”  
  
“They seldom are,” said Sherlock, causing the women to nod sagely.  
  
Silence fell as Susan brewed the tea and poured it, before fetching milk from the fridge. Now that he was sitting comfortably, John felt weariness creep up on him again. A brief glance at the clock over the fridge told him it was almost three. Hiding a yawn behind his hand, he reached for his mug and took a careful sip. The tea, as expected, did not taste like the normal PG Tips, but was lighter and more aromatic, Darjeeling, he surmised, some fair-trade variety. Unbidden an image of Victor Trevor and his Indian wife and large tea-plantation rose in his mind. He cast a quick glance at Sherlock who sat cradling his mug with one hand, with the other absently stroking the cat on his lap, his expression calm yet the faint frown creasing the bridge of his nose betraying his concentration. Likely he was filing information away in the vast labyrinthine corridors of his mind palace.  
  
“Is there anything else you need to know from us tonight?” asked Susan.  
  
Sherlock stirred. “For the moment, no. Make a list of everybody who, for one reason or other – and be it trifles –, may wish you ill, or has shown ill intent in the past. Old lovers, business competitors, nasty neighbours, university rivals, list them all. Katie mentioned there was some contention about the land you acquired recently. Who were the other interested parties, and are they interested still? Who are their friends and supporters? Who would benefit from scaring you away from here, or damaging your enterprise so severely that you would be forced to leave? I doubt there have been any outright threats, but is there anybody you can think of who displayed a negative attitude towards you, either publicly or behind your backs? Has there been any trolling on your blog, have your children been bullied at school? Look into all these things and write them down. If you can think of any particular persons, add their addresses if your can. I am confident that this is a local matter that can be resolved quickly and without too much fuss, but I need more information. When it’s light, John and I will have a closer look at your estate, and we will need to talk to a few of the locals as well, beginning with your friends the Naylands.”  
  
“They’ll be here again tomorrow morning to finish the room,” said Susan.  
  
“Excellent. When we have the list, we’ll visit a few of the local residents.”  
  
“You may consider attending the bonfire celebrations tonight,” suggested Katie. “Most folks from Eyke and a fair number from Rendlesham and even Melton and Woodbridge will be there. It’s at St. Gregory’s Church, over Rendlesham way. Emma and I are going, meaning I can take you.”  
  
“Sounds good,” said John, suppressing another yawn. “Sorry, long day.”  
  
“Indeed,” sighed Katie. “I have to take Emma, Lucy and Edmund to school tomorrow – we take turns – and pick up Anne as well. So I wouldn’t say no to a few hours sleep.”  
  
“You’re very welcome to stay here, John and Sherlock,” said Susan. “As you know, our guest rooms are being refurbished right now, but I’m sure we can find something.”  
  
“Oh, it’s fine, they’re staying with me,” said Katie. Susan gave her a grateful smile. Despite her down-to-earth, practical yet warm demeanour, John noted the weariness and worry in the lines round her mouth that didn’t result from smiling, and the bags under her eyes. Anger stirred in him. So far, the Millers had confirmed the impression of being as genuinely kind, hard-working and realistically idealistic that he’d already gained from their blog and Katie’s description. He liked them, liked their uncomplicated, warm and straightforward manner. Silently he promised that whoever had cowardly set about to destroy their livelihood was going to have to wrap up warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The illustration for this chapter is "[Needle in a haystack](http://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/86352841878/needle-in-a-haystack-illustration-and-teaser)":  
> 


	12. Chapter 12

They finished their tea, then took leave of the Millers when Peter returned from upstairs. It was only a short drive to Katie’s cottage, a low timber-framed brick building with a tiled roof partly covered with solar panels. The house nestled between apple-trees and two birches and what looked like a giant hedge of hazels. It seemed to be surrounded by a fair bit of a somewhat wild and unkempt garden, too, the dry leaves of tall plants rustling in the wind when they got out of the car, although there wasn’t much John could make out in the darkness. He did, however, notice a large shed to one side, a combination of garage, workshop and general storage space judging from what he could recognise, with a stack of what seemed to be timber planks and chopped wood under a low roof to one side.  
  
Katie led them inside. A faint smell of warm milk welcomed them. Apparently Emma had made herself a drink not long ago. The house had been dark upon their arrival, but when they entered, John thought he heard the creak of a door or wooden floorboards from upstairs. The house had one storey only, but apparently the attic had been converted into living space and was now occupied by the teenager. A wooden staircase wound up next to the door  
  
“I hope you don’t mind a bit of clutter,” said Katie apologetically as she led them through the house. Its interior looked rather like John had expected and recalled the Millers’ style of decorating: a mixture of old, almost antique or at least vintage furniture combined with functional modern designs of the IKEA persuasion and the odd designer piece – a style, in fact, that was reminiscent of their own living quarters at Baker Street. It felt welcoming and warm, despite the clutter – or because of it. The floor was covered in ornamented cement tiles in the entrance and kitchen area, and with wooden boards elsewhere, causing their footsteps to creak. Wooden beams supported parts of the ceiling, which was rather low. Most available wall-space was either occupied by shelves stacked with books, small pottery figures and sculptures, curiously formed natural objects like pieces of driftwood or small flint fossils, or hung with art both modern and traditional, with the odd movie-poster in-between. John was particularly fascinated by a series of prints designed like propaganda posters from the 1940s but featuring Star Wars characters instead.  
  
When his gaze fell on the large wooden kitchen table he recalled with a stab of guilt that their own new table was to be delivered today and that now poor Mrs. Hudson was going to have to deal with it. Most likely Sherlock had already deleted he had ordered the thing in the first place.  
  
“Feel free to help yourself to anything from the fridge or the cupboards,” Katie told them as she quickly showed them the kitchen before leading them on down the corridor. “The kettle plays up sometimes and switches itself off before the water has boiled. Just switch it on again. Right, here we are. Bathroom’s across the corridor. It’s just a small one with sink and toilet. If you want to shower, head down the corridor towards the other end. Fresh towels are on the shelves.”  
  
She opened a wooden door to the right. The room was quite large but also full of stuff. A large desk stood in front of the window which seemed to look out over a meadow or garden behind the house. An iMac of several years of age sat on the desk, and there was a printer and a scanner, too. The walls were again hidden behind shelves, some containing files and folders – apparently the room served as an office of sorts, amongst other things –, but most were stacked with books, and with crates or boxes of what looked like fabric or leather. On one of the lower shelves was a row of old video tapes. In the middle of the room a space had been cleared so that the sofa set against the right hand wall could be extended to create a makeshift bed. A duvet and two pillows were piled there.  
   
What struck John most about the room, however, drawing his gaze in the first place, were two dress forms, one male and one female. One was attired in a shirt and woollen tunic, a heavy woollen cloak fastened with a brooch arrayed over its shoulders. The second one was adorned with a hauberk over a padded under-garment, a sword hanging from the belted waist and a spear as well as a round, brightly painted shield leaning against it. Behind it on the shelf a helmet with a face-like nose- and eye-guard glinted dimly in the lamplight.  
  
“Hope the mattress is large enough, and also that you don’t mind sharing it and the duvet,” said Katie, causing John to turn to her. Sherlock had already wandered off to one of the shelves and begun to study the books. Their host indicated the bedstead. “There are woollen blankets over there in the box, should you be cold, although they might smell a bit smoky still from the last time I used them at an event.”  
  
“It’s fine,” John assured her. “Thanks for letting us stay here.”  
  
“I hope it’s not too cramped. I’ve always meant to sort out this room ... after … you know. Most of the stuff was Andrew’s, especially the reenactment gear. But somehow I never got round to doing so. Get rid of it, I mean, or just store it away in boxes.”  
  
She drew a breath, absently running her hand over the cloak on the dressmaker’s figure, to then move on and switch on the small desk lamp. John looked away, swallowing and recalling how 221B had been kept virtually unchanged after Sherlock’s departure, with neither he nor Mrs. Hudson having had the heart to dispose of any of the detective’s things.  
  
“I understand,” he said quietly. Katie gazed at him and nodded, making him wonder once again how much she knew about Sherlock’s and his story.  
  
“Anyway, if you need the internet, you can find the password for the WiFi on the router below the desk. Otherwise mobile reception is tricky in these parts, depending what provider you’re on. I’ll quickly check on Emma and then be down the corridor, so just let me know if you need anything. Good night.”  
  
John thanked her again, and Sherlock grunted something that sounded vaguely appreciative, his nose in a large book. Katie gave them a tired smile and left. John divested himself of rucksack and jacket, then switched off the ceiling illumination. The room looked less cluttered like that, but cozy and somewhat mysterious since many of the curious occupants of the shelves and boxes could only partly be descried in the small, warm light from the desk lamp. No wonder Sherlock was entirely distracted by all the things, having put back the book only to wander around a little and picking up another.  
  
“Right side or left?” John asked Sherlock, nodding toward the sofa. Sherlock’s shoulder twitched in a shrug, but he neither looked up nor replied properly. Apparently the book was interesting. John rolled his eyes and began unpacking his luggage next to the left side. He found a power socket and plugged in his mobile to charge, then grabbed his pyjamas and toiletries and set out to find the bathroom.  
  
When he returned ready for bed Sherlock was still reading, half sitting on the desk. He had, however, taken off his coat, scarf and gloves and deposited them on the desk chair, and kicked off his shoes, too.  
  
“What are you reading?” enquired John. He wandered over, casting a glance at the nearest shelf. Most books were about historical subjects: Anglo-Saxon and early medieval history with a strong focus on costume and armour of the period. Later periods were represented, too, most notably the late 18th and early 19th century with several tomes on nautical matters, maps and navigation, and a complete collection of Patrick O’Brian’s seafaring novels which John had always wanted to read but never really gotten round to doing so. On the other shelves were several Tolkien books, both primary and secondary literature, two sets of Harry Potter novels and lots of Star Wars paperbacks and other fantasy fare. On one of the lower shelves John spotted children’s and picture books, some dating back to the 1970s judging from their design and the state of their spines. They reminded him of his own childhood literature.  
  
Sherlock grunted, lifting his book slightly so John could see the cover. Dressed to Kill it was called, and seemed to be a well-illustrated account of historical naval uniforms.  
  
“Didn’t know you were interested in those,” John remarked. “Did you know they keep many locked away at the National Maritime Museum down at Greenwich? They also have Nelson’s Trafalgar coat on display, resplendent with bullet hole and blood stains.”  
  
“Yes,” rumbled Sherlock with what John recognised as reverence. “I’ve been to their archives.”  
  
“Oh. Must have been fascinating.”  
  
“Very much so.”  
  
“Been there for a case, then?”  
  
“No. Personal interest.”  
  
“Personal interest, indeed?” John eyed him sidelong and smiled. “So you fancy uniforms, eh?” he teased.  
  
Sherlock flushed, the tinge of his cheeks accentuated by the warm illumination. Again, John was struck how a consummate actor like Sherlock who could produce convincing tears or an amiable persona on cue, and who moreover could flirt resistance out of anybody if he put his mind to the task, nevertheless didn’t seem to be able to conceal actual embarrassment (or arousal) very well.  
  
“They can be rather … fetching,” Sherlock admitted after clearing his throat.  
  
John laughed. “Really? Is that so?”  
  
Sherlock gazed at him witheringly, daring him to comment further.  
  
John decided to tease him some more. “I’ll keep that in mind for the future. Perhaps an occasion will arise for me to don my old uniform again, or dress up as Captain Hornblower or something.” He noted with silent glee how Sherlock swallowed very slightly.  
  
Grinning, John decided to leave it at that. He yawned. “But for now, it’s bed for me. Reckon we’ll be up early again, so excuse me while I try and catch as much sleep as I can. Wouldn’t do you any harm, either, given that you were up at the crack of dawn today – yesterday, actually – to solve that florist case.”  
  
“I’ll retire in a moment,” muttered Sherlock, although he didn’t move or put down the book.  
  
But after John had settled down on the mattress which was more comfortable than he had expected, Sherlock left for the bathroom (with the book). John was half asleep when he returned, book in hand and clothes over his arm, smelling of toothpaste and wearing only an old t-shirt. His legs were bare and still showed a faint tanline above the knees from cycling in summer.  
  
John shook his head, smiling sleepily to himself. Apparently someone had forgotten to pack his pyjama bottoms.  
  
“What?” asked Sherlock as he shoved his legs under the blanket, his feet cold as they brushed John’s.  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
Sherlock huffed. “Didn’t think you’d mind.”  
  
“Mind what? You sleeping half naked next to me? I don’t. I just wonder sometimes how you can be so brilliant most of the time and then forget essentials on a regular basis. You know, eating, sleeping, packing your trousers – or putting them on.”  
  
“I didn’t forget to pack the trousers, I just wanted to avoid additional baggage. Also, I thought you might appreciate my latest acquisition.”  
  
John shifted to be able to look at him properly. “What latest acquisition?”  
  
Sherlock heaved a sigh. “As usual, you don’t observe, John,” he stated petulantly.  
  
“Then help me. What’s new about your attire? Not the t-shirt, certainly. That’s so old that Mrs. Hudson wanted to use it as a rag not long ago.”  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes and lifted the duvet. “Pants,” he announced. “New.”  
  
John leaned in to take a closer look, despite his amusement blood rushing into his cheeks (and other parts of his body) at the sight of two long, shapely legs, a bit of pale belly where Sherlock had lifted the hem of his t-shirt, and in-between his friend’s drawers. Indeed, the underwear Sherlock wore seemed of a more recent date than most of his usual pants. These here were black boxer briefs and looked like they were made of silk or satin, smooth and shiny. Unlike some of Sherlock’s regular pairs of drawers which were old and shapeless and an absolute contrast to his usual impeccable attire, these were fitting snugly.  
  
“You went and bought new underwear just to impress me?” asked John, warmth spreading in his chest area and somewhat further down, although he tried to ignore the latter.  
  
“Are you impressed?” enquired Sherlock smugly.  
  
John chuckled, licking his lips. “Yes, quite. They suit you.”  
  
Sherlock smiled, evidently pleased. “Good. Then I can tell Mrs. Hudson to buy some more. She'll be pleased since she definitely enjoyed choosing them.”  
  
John snorted, his eyes wide in a mixture of shock and amusement. “You sent Mrs. H. to buy you new underwear?”  
  
“She suggested it, in fact. Said the state of my underwear was a shame – no, ‘disgrace’ was her actual word of choice – especially now that there was someone around who was likely to see me in it. And since you’ve indeed been complaining, and she seemed knowledgeable in that department, has a fairly good taste in clothes, and moreover knows my size from doing the laundry, I gave her my card and told her she’d be doing all three of us a favour.”  
  
John lay back, running a hand over his eyes. “Oh my god, you’re out of your minds, the two of you. And for the record, I wasn’t complaining. The state of your underwear is the very least of my worries. Although I must attest Mrs. H. some excellent taste indeed.”  
  
“And a sense of humour. You should see one of the other pairs she bought,” Sherlock chuckled.  
  
Several unbidden images of various kinds of both sexy and outrageously funny underwear invaded John’s mind and he groaned softly. “Well, I’m sure I will, eventually. But for now I’d really like to sleep.” He leaned over to Sherlock and kissed his temple. “Good night, you ridiculous person you.”  
  
Sherlock switched off the lamp, then shifted until they almost shared a pillow, his shoulder touching John’s and his curls fanning out so that they brushed against John’s cheek. “Good night, John,” he rumbled, briefly turning his head to nose at John’s jaw and sighing contentedly.  
  
John smiled, his body relaxing as he drifted off, but just before he could truly fall asleep, he felt Sherlock stir next to him and move his head. He lay still for a while, then shifted some more, his hair tickling John’s cheek. John grunted. Couldn’t the man just lie still for a moment so he could fall asleep properly?  
  
Apparently not, since Sherlock continued to wriggle and shift.  
  
“What’s up, Sherlock?” asked John gruffly. “New pants too tight or what?”  
  
Sherlock made an exasperated sound. “No. I’m irritated by this animal. I can’t see it properly from down here, but is it supposed to be an owl or a cat?”  
  
“Hm, what?” Groggily, John opened an eye. “What are you talking about?”  
  
“That creature up on the shelf over there, in the basket with the other stuffed animals. I need to know.”  
  
“Why do you need to know now?” mumbled John. “Close your eyes and you won’t see it and therefore won’t have to worry about it until it’s daylight, by which time you can get up and take a closer look.”  
  
“It’s watching me. And wondering about it will keep me awake even when I’ve managed to divest myself of any thoughts about the case for the remainder of the night.”  
  
With a massive sigh, John scooted closer and tilted his head so he could see what mysterious creature was keeping Sherlock awake. It was difficult to make out anything in the gloom up on the shelf, but when he recognised what was causing the distraction, he chuckled softly.  
  
“Well?” demanded Sherlock impatiently.  
  
“It’s neither a cat nor an owl, Sherlock. It’s a Totoro.”  
  
“A what?”  
  
“It’s a character from a Japanese animation film from the 1980s. I watched it once when it was shown on the telly. It’s a bit crazy but very atmospheric and ... um ... heartwarming. Totoro is some kind of benevolent if strange tree-spirit who helps two little girls visit their sick mum in hospital. He’s magical and only the kids can see him, and he has all kinds of weird creatures as friends, like a bus-cat.”  
  
“A bus-cat.”  
  
John grinned in the darkness at Sherlock’s confused rumble. “Yes.”  
  
With that, he turned his back to Sherlock and closed his eyes, drawing the duvet more tightly around himself as if in sign that he was going to sleep now, finally. But Sherlock wasn’t done.  
  
“How is that supposed to work? Do the passengers ride on its back? How large is it? How can a cat be a bus?”  
  
John dug an elbow in his side to shut him up. “Sherlock, it’s a fairytale. The cat is as large as a coach and can open its side to form doors and can make furry benches and seats inside it. It’s eyes are the headlights, and it can fly, too, and run along overhead power lines. Normal people don’t see it and think it’s just a gust of wind when it rushes past. Enough information? If so, then shut the hell up and go to sleep.”  
  
Sherlock was silent for a moment. “What if it isn’t?”  
  
“Sherlock,” John hissed warningly. “If you really need to know more, get your phone and consult the internet. I’m sure you can find the entire film online if you search for it. But if you do it, then quietly. Night.”  
  
Sherlock chuckled softly, slotting himself behind John so he was spooning him, his right arm creeping over his torso in an endearing deliberate, bashful fashion to rest lightly on John’s middle. John felt a light peck of lips on the nape of his neck. “We can watch it together once we’re back in London. Good night, John.”  
  
John only grunted, patted Sherlock's hand once, and soon after, thankfully, sleep took him.

  
**- <o>-**

  
John woke to light warming that side of his face not swallowed by the pillow, and to the rough croak of crows outside the window. During the night, he had shifted onto his stomach and now lay sprawled across most of the mattress. There was no sign of Sherlock. John stretched, turned and sat up to take in the room and what he could see outside the window.  
  
Patchy sunlight illuminated a stretch of lawn studded by old apple-trees. There were clusters of faded perennials wreathed in dew-covered cobwebs, a shed, and a patch of vegetable garden with stalks of kale and some rows of berry-bushes, their branches almost bare but for a few coloured leaves clinging to them, and a giant faded pumpkin plant taking up most of the land. Bright orange physalis glowed on the borders of the garden, creating a sharp contrast to the bushes of violet chrysanthemums. Behind the garden was a low hedge and what looked like a meadow, and beyond that a line of gorse and the edge of a forest of birches, oaks and dark pine-trees ruffled by a stiff breeze from the west.  
  
More interesting than Katie’s garden was the fact that although Sherlock’s clothes from the previous day were still where he had deposited them, his coat, scarf and gloves were gone, as were his shoes and watch, and, John noticed, his mobile, which he had left on the desk some hours ago, plugged in to charge.  
  
Frowning and running a hand through his tousled hair, John cast back the duvet and stood up, retrieving his watch from his own pile of clothes. To his slight shock, it was 9:38 already. So much for an early start. No wonder Sherlock had vanished. Likely he had woken hours ago at first light and immediately set out to investigate their case. John cursed under his breath, both himself for sleeping in, and his friend for not waking him. And why were his clothes still here? Sherlock certainly didn’t wander round the countryside clad only in his Belstaff over his old t-shirt and shiny new pants, did he? At the memory of the underwear, John involuntarily smiled. Remembering the sheet episode at Buckingham Palace, he decided that it wasn’t beyond his friend to set out improperly attired.  
  
Picking up his mobile from the floor, he checked for any messages, but there were none.  
  
Where are you? he texted, scowling at the lonely reception bar. Who knew whether Sherlock had any reception, wherever he was.  
  
With a sigh, John got some fresh underwear from his rucksack and set out for the bathroom. The smell of coffee greeted him as he crossed the corridor. After a quick wash and shave and brush of teeth, he dressed, returned his pyjamas to their room and fetched his phone (still no message), and wandered off in the direction of the kitchen. There Katie sat at the table nursing a mug of coffee and reading the paper, an empty cereal bowl next to her.  
  
“Morning,” John greeted her.  
  
“Morning. Hope you slept well.” She looked like she had barely slept at all.  
  
“Too well, I fear. My companion has deserted me.”  
  
“Yes, he was up with Emma and I. I gave him a lift to the Millers when I drove there to pick up Edmund and Lucy. Apparently he couldn’t wait to look for more clues. I’m to tell you to meet him over at their place.”  
  
“Thanks. Hope he’ll still be there and not have wandered off. He does that sometimes. Didn’t even text, the twat.”  
  
Katie smiled as she rose to fetch him a mug. “Molly mentioned that he can be ... well, like that. Have some breakfast, at least. Coffee?”  
  
“Please.”  
  
“Right. What’d you like to eat? Cereal, muesli, toast? I could make you some eggs, too.”  
  
“Cereal and toast are fine. Reckon Sherlock didn’t eat, did he?”  
  
“He only had coffee. Breakfast was brief and a little tense, anyway. Emma wasn’t in the best of moods, didn’t want to eat, either, and the fact that two strangers camped here last night didn’t help things.”  
  
John nodded. “Hope Sherlock behaved himself, at least.”  
  
“He was civil, didn’t talk much to her, only watched her, which seemed to irate her even further. He must have noticed, because he mostly talked to me and then he concentrated on his mobile instead. Emma in turn gave him the cold shoulder as teenagers best know how.”  
  
Katie sighed, brushing a curly strand of hair behind her ear as she rose to fetch coffee, a bowl, mug and spoon, and made toast. “I really hope things will improve and you’ll find the foal soon. Emma’s completely out of sorts because of its disappearance, and I fear that the distraction will manifest itself in a lack of interest in school. She used to struggle a little in the past, but things were getting better earlier this year, before Rædwald was killed.”  
  
John nodded understandingly, pouring milk onto his Cheerios. “Must be tough raising a child on your own, even with help from friends like the Millers.”  
  
“It is, but worth it,” said Katie, joining him at the table again. “Actually, I never expected to marry and have kids. It just kinda … happened when I met Andrew, and he came with Emma already in tow. And now it’s just the two of us. I didn’t expect that, either, not so soon, at least. Couldn’t he have waited another thirty or forty years before getting himself killed?”  
  
She glanced at John and drew a breath. “Apologies for my occasional bitterness. Just a way of coping, I guess. Some people think that I should cease to mourn him. That I should go out and start dating again, all that. It’s been over a year, they say. But it’s not that easy, you see.”  
  
“I know exactly what you mean,” admitted John quietly, absently dunking cereal rings in milk and watching them float up again. “After Sherlock jumped – I’m sure you know the story –” Katie nodded.  
  
“Well, after he supposedly committed suicide right in front of my eyes, I just … I didn’t cope. Far from it. Couldn’t stay in our flat, couldn’t bear to meet people I associated with our time together. Same went for places. His sudden absence was like a hole ripped into my life. I was still mourning him nine months later, when out of the blue he showed up again. And hadn’t he returned then, I’d still be missing him today. And we were only friends when he faked his death, you know. Not … together in that sense. Not a couple.”  
  
Katie smiled softly. “Well, according to Molly, you were, even before he jumped.”  
  
“She told you about us?”  
  
“Oh yes. It started out with her gushing to me about this fascinating bloke that came round her workplace now and again. It soon transpired she had a crush on him, albeit a rather hopeless one, as she admitted. I wondered why, because she’s smart and cute and can be very funny, which usually men find endearing. Back at uni it was always she who had the menfolk making eyes at her. But this fellow didn’t seem to pick up any of her cues, even the really obvious ones. The way she described his behaviour towards her I thought he'd either be a total idiot, an arrogant arsehole, or not interested in women and/or relationships at all. Then again I don’t think Molly ever wanted to actually date him, you know, as in sex and everything. She said he was handsome, which he is, but she seemed more fascinated by his intellect and the way he didn’t seem to give a damn what people thought about him.  
  
“Anyway, when after a while she mentioned that this mystery crush of hers had begun to bring along a friend – a male friend – when before he’d rarely suffered the company of other people, I assumed that he was gay. I think by then she’d also begun to see Sherlock in more realistic terms, since her accounts of him became more sparing and less exuberant, with fewer mentions both of his brains and his looks. In fact, I heard her talk less and less about him, and was secretly pleased that she seemed to have overcome her infatuation and was moving on.”  
  
“I didn’t know Molly had it so badly for Sherlock,” confessed John. “She always seemed a bit flustered when he was about, at least before his Fall, but … well, Sherlock does have this effect on people.”  
  
“I bet he does. But she did recover, and moreover build up resistance against his charms. And then there was this notable weekend she spent over here. It was about a year ago, last year’s Halloween, I think. Neither of us felt like doing anything in London, so I invited her over. We hadn’t had much contact over the summer because of … well, you know. I wasn’t the most communicative after Andrew’s departure. And Molly had troubles of her own, as I learned that weekend.”  
  
John thought he understood what had been bothering Molly, and he felt a slight stab of resentment mixed with pity. “She told you about Sherlock’s Fall, didn’t she? About her part in it.”  
  
Katie nodded, putting two pieces of toast onto a plate and handing them over, and fetching butter and what looked like home-made jam. “I was actually shocked when I saw her that weekend. She had lost weight and looked like she hadn’t slept properly in ages. Looked worse than I, I thought, and that meant something. Emma was staying over at Anne’s. So we had some mulled wine that night, quite a lot of it, and I wept about Andrew like I hadn't ever since he’d died, and told her how I didn’t think I’d cope with Emma and everything, and then Molly started weeping too, and asked me whether I’d promise her to keep a secret. I had to swear not to breathe a word to anybody. Lives depended on it, she said. I thought she was drunk and exaggerating somewhat severely. In fact, I guess we both were. Tipsy, I mean. But swear I did, and then she looked at me solemnly and told me the story of Sherlock’s fall, and what she had done to stage it, and that nobody must know he was still alive, if he was, particularly not you. I didn’t know much about you back then, just recognised your name. According to Molly’s account you were the bloke that usually tagged along Sherlock. His best friend. The way Molly described the two of you, she seemed to assume there had been more between you than what you or Sherlock had acknowledged. I admit I was curious and had a look at your blog. And you know, couple or not at the time, I totally understand how his presumed death and disappearance must have shattered you. Even if you were just friends at the time. I was actually tempted to contact you, but I had sworn to Molly not to betray her secret, and she’d been very, very persistent that your life and those of others might be in danger if any of what she’d told me reached the wrong ears. So I didn’t speak up. I apologise if that prolonged your grief.”  
  
John shook his head. “I was indeed being threatened, even though I didn’t know it at the time, so you did the right thing. And it turned out well in the end. I mean, he's back, and things are a bit more ... clear between us in terms of what we mean to each other and what our relationship could be like.”  
  
Katie glanced at him over her coffee mug, and John felt guilty of a sudden. Both of them had been through a period of intense grief, but miraculously, he had been granted a second chance. His prayer at Sherlock’s grave had been heard, his wish granted. He had been reunited with the person he loved. Katie was not going to be so lucky.  
  
She seemed to be reading his thoughts. “Hold on to him,” she said quietly, and attempted a brave smile without succeeding entirely.  
  
“I will,” promised John, quickly eating a spoonful of his cereal to prevent her from seeing how the conversation had touched him.  
  
For a while he ate in silence while Katie finished her coffee, absently leaving through the newspaper. Then she rose and started to clear away the remaining breakfast utensils. “I can give you a lift to the Millers. I have to be off in a short while. I’ve got an appointment down at Hollesley, at the Suffolk Punch Trust. A couple of horses arrived yesterday that need shoeing.”  
  
“Oh, new Punches?” asked John.  
  
“No, Thoroughbreds. They offer stabling and training for racehorses, too, which is in high demand, particularly over the winter months. A former Grand National champion and a Newmarket winner arrived yesterday who are to be the basis for a new stud somewhere in these parts. I hope to learn more about the matter once I’m there.”  
  
“Potential new customers?”  
  
She smiled. “Precisely. Not that I need another city smart-arse to try and boss me around, but a job’s a job. I’m outside getting the car and trailer ready. Come once you’re done. Oh, Sherlock asked whether I had any Ordnance Survey maps of the area. I have one of Woodbridge as far as Framlingham in the car which you are welcome to take, and there should be others in the drawers over there. Hiking maps, too. Have a look. You’re welcome to pack some snacks as well, whatever you find over there – she pointed at the counter. “Since that detective of yours eschewed breakfast this morning,” she added with a wink, and left.  
  
John finished his breakfast, then took his crockery to the sink and rinsed it, and returned butter, milk and jam to the fridge. In one of the drawers, buried beneath a heap of flyers and other papers he found a considerable number of maps, and chose one that showed the area west of Woodbridge as far as Felixstowe and Harwich. He also packed two apples and bananas, and two cereal bars each, recalling with a smile an instance when Sherlock had discussed his favourite flavours with a little German girl during their stay in the French Alps. The girl had enquired whether John had been Sherlock’s boyfriend, a question which back then hadn’t quite been settled, but which Sherlock had answered affirmatively. In fact, when John thought back on the many instances people had assumed they were a couple and he’d rigorously denied he was gay, thank you very much, Sherlock had never objected or corrected them, like he was secretly touched and pleased that people believed he was blessed with a boyfriend like John. Now John wondered whether his denial hadn’t secretly hurt his friend, who feared rejection so much. Well, John thought, he needn’t fear it any longer. Gay or not, John was no longer going to dispute that he and Sherlock belonged together.  
  
Smiling, John set out to their room. On the way his phone pinged. Apparently his Majesty had finally deigned to reply. And indeed,  
  
Good morning, John. Since you should have finished breakfast by now, do make your way over to the farm. At once, if convenient. SH  
  
Half a minute later there was another text.  
  
If inconvenient, hurry anyway. Bring the maps. SH  
  
And another.  
  
I’ve organised transportation. SH  
  
Grinning, John typed back: On my way. What kind of transportation?  
  
Surprise. SH  
  
John rolled his eyes. Knowing Sherlock, this could mean anything.

  
**- <o>-**

  
Stepping outside, John cast a thoughtful glance at the sky. It was overcast, the clouds being chased by a stiff westerly breeze, but there were spells of bright sunlight. Temperatures were tolerable. There seemed to be no imminent threat of rain, but he knew that with the wind this strong conditions might change quickly. Shouldering his rucksack, he walked over to Katie who was busy hooking a small trailer to her car which seemed to contain her farrier equipment.  
  
“I don’t know how long this is going to take,” she told him when they were on their way. “But Sherlock has my number, in case you need me to pick you up somewhere. If you need to rent a car for greater mobility, we’d have to get one from Ipswich. I don’t think there’s a car hire in Woodbridge. Oh, here’s the map you asked for.”  
  
“Thanks.” John took the somewhat tattered paper and stowed it in his rucksack. “Sherlock’s just texted me he’s organised transportation, whatever that means.”  
  
Katie raised her eyebrows and smiled. “Susan and Peter have a pony trap. Maybe he’s gotten that ready.”  
  
John chuckled. “Wouldn’t put it beyond him.”

  
**- <o>-**

  
It turned out Katie had been right about the ponies, but not the carriage. When they came up the drive approaching the farmhouse, John started to laugh softly. There stood Sherlock, tall and a little stiffly, resplendent in his Belstaff and blue scarf, his hair ruffled by the wind, while two Icelandic horses – a dark bay-coloured one, and a chestnut with a straw-coloured mane and tail – were rubbing their shaggy heads against his sides and nosing at the pockets of his coat. Both were already saddled and bridled, with Sherlock holding their reins.  
  
“Oh my god,” muttered John, whipping out his mobile from the interior pocket of his jacket, “could you drive a little slower? I need to preserve this view for posterity.”  
  
Katie grinned. “He does look rather cute this way,” she agreed, and slowed the car so that John could snap a photo through the windscreen. Sherlock had noticed, of course, and was rolling his eyes.  
  
“Is this going to be another piece in your collection of evidence of me being awkward with animals?” he asked when John exited the car. John could tell that he was pretending offence but was secretly flattered and somewhat amused.  
  
“Yep,” replied John with a broad grin. “It’s right up there with the kitten shot. Although I wouldn’t call it awkward. Well, okay, a little, perhaps.”  
  
“What would you call it, then?”  
  
“Cute.”  
  
Sherlock snorted.  
  
“Right, guys, I’m off,” Katie called through the open car door. “Good luck with the two ladies here.” She nodded at the horses. “And text me if there’s anything new. I’ll be round once I’m finished down at Hollesley.”  
  
“See you, and thanks,” replied John, waving as she backed up and turned the car and drove off. He walked over to Sherlock, studying the horses with a frown. “So, this is your transportation, eh? What makes you think I know how to operate one of those?”  
  
Sherlock scoffed. “John, really. You know I’ve been through your photographs and personal memorabilia countless times and hence am aware of the summer you spent as a stable-boy at a local riding school. Your official reason was to earn some money, the unofficial one to meet girls. You received free riding lessons then, and other … lessons, too, when your second objective proved successful.”  
  
John blushed. He recalled that summer fondly, less so for the riding lessons, however, despite them being surprisingly enjoyable. “Right, okay, good spying. But I’ve not ridden a horse since.”  
  
“That’s why we’re supposed to practise a little in the paddock before we set out. I’ve been assured that these two are gentle creatures and safe to ride in the field even for fairly inexperienced riders, but we should get ourselves accustomed to their characters, first. Also, I’m curious to try out their special gait. So come on, let’s get moving. Susan is going to supervise us. Oh, and may I introduce you to Fenja and Tjálga. The latter will be your steed for today.”  
  
He handed the reins of the chestnut mare to John, who took them with some bewilderment, before cautiously reaching out to rub the horse’s nose.  
  
Sherlock cocked his head. “Problem?”  
  
“Er … not really. But I thought we’re here for the case, not to take riding lessons. You were so eager to search for clues that you abandoned me this morning, and now suddenly we seem to have all the time in the world.”  
  
Sherlock’s head jerked up slightly at John’s choice of words. “I didn’t ‘abandon’ you, I left you to catch up on sleep. If my estimations are correct, you will thank me for being well rested later today. As for the case, it’s well under way. I conducted a thorough search for tracks round the back of the stables and found precisely what I had been looking for. In fact, I’m confident that we’re going to find the foal today, but getting there should be a bit tricky with normal ways of transportation – unless you want to walk. Hence our two dear ladies here. They should prove instrumental. But you are right, we shouldn’t tarry. Come along. Susan is waiting.”  
  
With that, he turned and started to walk, his mare trundling along good-naturedly. John watched his back for a moment, then shook his head in exasperation and hurried to keep up, tugging on the reins so that the horse, Tjálga, followed him with a snort.  
  
“Whoa, Sherlock, wait a moment,” he called. “What do you mean with ‘find the foal today’?”  
  
Sherlock gave him a frown over his shoulder. “I mean precisely what I said.”  
  
“So you know where it is and who took it?”  
  
“I have an inkling concerning both, yes, but I need confirmation. After we’ve completed our lesson, we’re going to head out to meet the Naylands, and then we’re going to conduct a thorough search of the surrounding countryside, starting with the Millers’ recently acquired land near the forest. The horses will serve us best in that terrain. Did you bring the map?”  
  
“Yes. Some food, too, should your transport require it.”  
  
“I’m sure Fenja will appreciate an apple.”  
  
John rolled his eyes. “I meant it for you, not the damn horse. By the way, what are you wearing under that coat, since you left your trousers, shirt and jacket at Katie’s.” He glanced at Sherlock’s legs and raised his eyebrows. “Jeans?”  
  
“Well, I’m not going to ride in thin wool trousers, am I? Also, I thought some garments other than a suit might be appropriate in this kind of environment.”  
  
“Really? You wore your suits and stuff back in Dartmoor. What have you on under the coat?”  
  
“Why are you suddenly so concerned about my attire?”  
  
“I’m not concerned, just curious. After all, you’re usually so particular with what you wear. It’s like a kind of … don’t know, costume for you, or armour. Also, you were the one who proudly paraded his new underwear last night.”  
  
“I didn’t parade it, I just showed it to you. Thought you might appreciate it.”  
  
“I did. So, what’s under the coat?”  
  
Heaving a breath, which, however, didn’t fool John, Sherlock halted and with a flourish, cast aside the lapels of his coat to reveal a blue-grey turtleneck jumper. The fabric looked smooth and soft, cashmere or something like it, John reckoned. He felt immediately tempted to run his fingers over it.  
  
“Satisfied?” enquired Sherlock with a faint but decidedly cocky grin and a raised eyebrow.  
  
John involuntarily licked his lips when he noticed how the garment accentuated Sherlock’s lean frame, the colour complimenting that of his scarf and his light-grey eyes, and going well with his dark jeans. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, very. Didn’t know you owned any jumpers like that.”  
  
“John, I also own several tradesmen’s outfits, a biohazard suit, a chain-mail shirt and an Empire muslin dress, all acquired and used for casework.”  
  
John stared. “What case required you to don a dress?” he asked with horrified fascination, with an image of Sherlock in a Jane Austen dress and with his curls artfully arranged under a bonnet playing loop in his mind.  
  
Sherlock grinned. “Ask me another time. Hello, Susan.”  
  
They had reached a white-fenced paddock where Susan was waiting, two riding helmets dangling from her arm. She was dressed in work clothes and had apparently just been mucking out stables.  
  
“Good morning, John,” she greeted him. “I see you’ve already made friends with Tjálga. She’s a good one. You won’t be having any troubles with her. Come on, lead them inside, and I’ll check whether the girths are still tight enough. Fenja has the habit of blowing herself up when it’s tightened so that once she breathes out again it’s loose. Here, try these on.” She handed over the helmets. “You can adjust the fit, like with a cycling helmet.”  
  
“What about the rucksack?” asked John.  
  
“Oh, I can get you a pair of saddle-bags. They’re more comfortable when you’re riding.”  
  
John had expected Sherlock to make a fuss about the helmet, but he put it on his head without further discussion. He did look a bit ridiculous, but John surmised the same went for him. Meanwhile, Susan checked the girth straps and then pulled down the stirrups.  
  
“Best mount first, and I’ll adjust the length for you.” She held both horses while the men clambered on top, Sherlock, to John’s chagrin, far more elegantly than he. The twat even managed to swing his coat-tails over the horse’s back with a smooth move so that they spread out evenly. When Susan asked him to lift his leg forward over the skirt to enable her to adjust the length of the stirrup-strap, John got a good look of the jeans and smiled to himself.  
  
Soon both of them were ready. Despite the horses’ relatively small size – they weren’t referred to as ponies, although for John they were definitely pony-sized – they seemed able to carry grown men with ease. Even with his habitual poise, Sherlock looked a tiny bit ridiculous with his long legs dangling to both sides of his mare, but the dramatic coat made up for that in John’s opinion. He wondered when Sherlock had had riding lessons. He definitely looked like he knew what he was doing. John hoped it was indeed like cycling and one didn’t unlearn it. At least his hands seemed to recall on their own accord how to hold the reins, and after a bit of shifting in the saddle he found a position that was both comfortable and efficient for urging the horse on.  
  
Tjálga set into motion willingly, and following Susan’s instructions they rode a few rounds at a moderate walk to warm up the horses and make them get used to their riders. The warm smell of horse and leather, the creaking of the saddle and the gentle, swaying motion brought up memories of a summer spent making hay, mucking out stables and grooming horses, cleaning and polishing tack, riding in the fields and woodlands and swimming in the nearby lake, and one memorable night in the hay with a girl called Jody. It had been a good summer, as John recalled fondly.  
  
“Okay, are you ready to got a bit faster?” Susan’s voice interrupted John's reminiscences. “Right. Just urge them on, see what they do. Fenja might start to tölt right away, Tjálga usually trots. If you want her to tölt, John, sit back in the saddle, back straight, rein her in, yeah, like that, and urge her on. Some more. Don’t lean forward. There you are. Excellent.”  
  
Having expected the horse to accelerate to a jolting trot upon his ministrations, John was surprised when instead the mare simply seemed to continue her four count rhythm, but at a much faster pace. The effect was astonishing. There were no jolts and jumbles, instead John was able to sit very still on an only gently swaying horse, which nevertheless moved at considerable speed. He cast a glance over to Sherlock who commanded quite a striking view: tall and upright in the saddle, his chin lifted in an almost haughty stance and with his coat flaring slightly behind him, his horse’s neck straight, the head lifted and the bushy mane flying.  
  
“This is fantastic,” the detective commented over the fast beat of their mares’ hooves on the sandy ground.  
  
Susan smiled broadly. “That’s Icelanders for you. We’re lucky with the ones we’ve got. Most tölt easily, which is always a delight for the children who usually ride them. Would you like to try a faster speed, too. Try and get them to gallop. Both are five-gaiters, so you might try the skeið, too? Not sure you’ll manage since it usually requires quite a bit of experience, but both ladies can be persuaded to use it, Fenja more than Tjálga.”  
  
“What’s that, skeið?” asked John.  
  
“Flying pace,” explained Sherlock. “What do I have to do?” he asked excitedly, apparently piqued by the difficulty of the task. He seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself, something John hadn’t expected. Then again this appeared to be yet another occurrence of Sherlock being exposed to nature and after a brief phase of awkwardness losing his cool, sophisticated city exterior to expose his wild, carefree, sometimes almost child-like heart.  
  
“Okay, let’s see if it’s Fenja’s good day today,” said Susan. “John, you’d better come over here and wait with me. He’s going to need some space. See if you can get her to canter and then gallop directly from the tölt, Sherlock. She might want to trot in between. Ah, no, okay, excellent. Hold her at the gallop for two or three rounds.” They watched as Sherlock rode past, his coat waving and fluttering behind him in earnest now.  
  
“Are you ready?” asked Susan. Sherlock nodded.  
  
“Right, try shifting your weight further back in the saddle, like you did for the tölt. You may need to … ah, okay, or you may not. Voilá, the skeið. Just let her fly for a bit.”  
  
When Sherlock had shifted his weight according to the instruction, a change had come over the horse. It’s body seemed to stretch and elongate, and the long leaps of the gallop melted into one smooth constant movement. John understood now why this was called ‘flying pace’. The horse seemed to fly indeed, its legs barely touching the ground as they beat out a quick staccato, the speed accentuated by the flying mane and tail while the rider sat quite still, upright and majestic, like a monarch on a fast moving throne. John thought that this was the perfect gait for Sherlock to ride at because it resembled his character: difficult, quite singular,  with his tight control and composure on the one hand and his moments of thought and stillness, while his mind ran a mile a minute like Fenja's legs on the other. It was quite a sight to     behold, and John felt his heart leap at it.  
  
“Try and collect her again,” Susan called. “Rein her down to tölt or she'll exhaust herself already, and you’re only about to set out. Right, that’s it. Do a few slow rounds and then get her to walk a bit.”  
  
When Sherlock passed them by, riding at a gentle tölt now, John saw that his cheeks were flushed and his eyes shining. He looked elated, like after the successful solution of a difficult case (or, John thought with a warm and slightly smug smile, a thorough snogging session). Gradually slowing the horse, Sherlock rode over to them, patting Fenja’s dark neck.  
  
“You have some skill at horsemanship, Sherlock,” said Susan appreciatively. “You, too, by the way, John. Both of you did really well for folks who've not ridden in a while.”  
  
“‘In a while’ is another way of putting it. I’ve last ridden a horse some twenty-five years ago,” said John. “How long has it been for you, Sherlock?”  
  
“About ten. One of my first cases involved investigations at a fox hunt. But these Icelandic horses are something else for sure. You’ve trained them very well, Susan.”  
  
“Well, we’ve merely enhanced their natural inclinations. Not all Icelanders can do flying pace, and some don’t tölt that easily, either.  Right, I guess you want to be off. You have your maps, yes?”  
  
The men nodded.  
  
“Good. There are many bridle-paths in the fields and the forest. Some designated mountain-bike trails, too, although the cyclists don’t like when they’re used for riding, which I understand. So better stay off those. If you get lost in the denser parts of the forest, just keep to one of the straight paths that cut through it. It’ll always lead you back to one of the roads. Do you have a compass on your mobiles? Right. I’ll get your saddle-bags, John, and also two ropes and halters. Should you stop somewhere for longer, take off the bridles and put on the halters so that they can graze a little without chewing on the bit all the time. Also loosen their saddle-girths a little when they’re at rest.”  
  
“Will they need a blanket, too, if we stop somewhere for longer?” enquired Sherlock.  
  
“If you haven’t made them sweat too much, no. They’re used to being outside in all weather, and as you can see their coat is very thick. Choose a sheltered spot for them, though, out of the wind, and rub them down with dry grass or bracken. I'd advise you not too work them too much, anyway, to prevent them from sweating too profusely. Walk and gentle tölt is fine. They can go at the latter for a long time without exerting themselves overly. Brief gallop now and again is okay, too, should they feel so inclined – they might, there are tracks out there we usually let them run along, and they remember those –, but don’t try the skeið again outside the paddock. I’ll pack you some high energy treats for them so you can feed them a little, should you stay out till the evening. Water’s plenty out there in ditches and puddles. Just let them drink if they want to, but check for oil spillage from tractors and cars.”

  
**- <o>-**

  
Soon after, the contents of John’s rucksack had been stowed in Tjálga’s saddle-bags while Fenja’s contained what they were going to need for the horses. The two men stood next to each other poring over the OS map from Katie’s car.  
  
“Right, so what’s the plan now?” asked John, keeping an inquisitive Tjálga from nibbling on the paper.  
  
“The Naylands’ cottage is over here,” Sherlock pointed at a solitary house perhaps a mile to the south from the Millers’ farm, across one of the roads that cut through the forest. “From there, depending a little on what they’re going to tell us, we can cut through the forest and have a look at these deserted airfields and barracks.”  
  
“Don’t you think they’d be fenced in.”  
  
“Oh, I’m sure they are, but fences decay or can be cut.”  
  
“So you believe the foal is hidden somewhere on the old airfields?”  
  
“It’s one possibility. According to the evidence I found during this morning’s search, the foal was led away on foot. There were no traces of a car and trailer, at least not in the close vicinity of the farm. I followed the track behind it as far as the pond, and there were occasional hoofmarks that were both fairly fresh and could fit the foal’s hooves in size. According to Katie, her shoes weren’t equipped with caulkins like our mares’ here are.”  
  
“Were there footprints, too?”  
  
“No, which is odd. But it’s possible that whoever led the foal away walked on the grassy borders of the path, or in the middle, which is grass- and weed-grown, too. Beyond the fishpond the path peters out and the tracks get lost in the fields and are no longer recognisable, but the direction seems to be clear: they were heading towards the forest. As you can see on this map, there are several disused pits and even what looks like small huts scattered all over the area, not to mention the old barracks and airfield buildings. Enough places to hide a foal, don’t you think?”  
  
“What makes you believe they didn’t just walk it to the nearest road and there loaded it onto a trailer and drove off? Why would anybody keep the animal around after they managed to successfully steal it?”  
  
Sherlock smiled mysteriously. “Oh, I’m rather convinced it’s still fairly close by. The abductors will want to keep an eye on it.”  
  
John glanced at him and sighed. “You are aware you’re doing the thing again, aren’t you? The one I dislike, you remember?”  
  
Sherlock frowned. “What thing?”  
  
“The thing when you’re all mysterious and aloof because you know stuff that you don’t deign to explain to me, only to later awe me with your brilliance.”  
  
“You like to be awed by my brilliance,” observed Sherlock.  
  
“Not as much as you like impressing me and hearing me tell you how extraordinary and amazing you are.”  
  
Sherlock smiled. “We make a good team, then.”  
  
“Oh, shut up. You will tell me anything of importance, won’t you? I don’t want to be kept in the dark when things can get dangerous.”  
  
“I don’t expect any imminent danger here, although I noticed that you did bring your gun, which was prudent. Tricky feat not letting Susan see it when you transferred your stuff from your rucksack into your saddle-bags.”  
  
“Yeah, thanks for distracting her. Right, shall we be off, then? Oh, do you want to eat anything? I know you’re on a case, but these bananas will turn all brown and mushy if they’re kept in the bags for too long.”  
  
Sherlock glared at him, which John weathered unflinchingly. He heaved a monumental sigh, and pretending he was doing John the biggest of favours, he extended a gloved hand imperiously. “Well, we can’t have mushy bananas, can we?” he stated. John smiled as he handed him the fruit.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first drawing for this chapter is done: "[I've organised transportation.](http://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/89953854533/ive-organised-transportation-the-first)"  
> 
> 
> There's a second illustration: "[Flying pace.](http://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/92556057818/flying-pace-sherlock-rides-an-icelandic-horse)"  
> 


	13. Chapter 13

If John had had to draw a picture of how he imagined the Naylands’ cottage to be like (and he’d possessed the required drawing skills), his picture would have looked very much like the one that presented itself to the riders: a quaint, colourful, reed-thatched house nestling between a somewhat dishevelled garden and tall old trees. After leaving the Millers’ farm they had crossed the road and followed a flinty driveway bordered by thick, bramble-grown hedges towards a clump of trees. A handful of chickens and a proud cockerel fled noisily as the horsemen tölted up the drive and reined in their horses in front of the cottage. An ancient Volkswagen Passat and two bicycles that looked like they’d been custom-made stood there. A detritus of ... well, stuff was the term that came most readily to John’s mind seemed to have steadily crept out of the wood and brick outbuildings to both sides of the house and begun to spread across the drive and the lawny space in front of the cottage. It didn’t look like junk, though, more like the playground of a quirky and somewhat messy inventor with a problematic attitude towards throwing things away.

As they dismounted and John looked for something to tie the horses’ reins to, a woman emerged from the house carrying a bowl of onion and carrot parings. She had greying hair caught in a loose braid, and wore the exact clothes John would have depicted her in based on Katie’s description: a woollen jumper, likely self-knitted, linen trousers with a floral batik pattern, a striped apron, and wooden clocks over hand-knitted socks. 

“Oh, hello, you must be the detectives from London Susan mentioned,” she greeted them, setting down the bowl and wiping her hands on her apron. “I’m Linda. Please, do come in. You’ll have questions, I assume. You can tie the horses to the fence over there.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

Soon, they were settled in yet another cozy if presently somewhat messy kitchen. Its furniture was either restored antiques or custom-made, with earthenware crookery and enamel pots. But most appliances were brand new, sleek and functional. They looked almost like a professional kitchen as might be found in a restaurant. There was a strong smell of onions, combined with the sharp, spicy tang of ginger. Several bowls of cut onions stood on the table, and there was a large pot on the hearth in which some kind of soup was stewing. On one of the counters stood rows of glasses, already labelled. Linda had obviously been in the process of making some kind of chutney or onion marmalade.

Now she bade them take a seat and began rummaging in the fridge and the large carved cupboard, before switching on the kettle. Soon tea and biscuits were set before them after Linda had cleared the table enough to make space.

“My husband Stuart drove to Woodbridge earlier, but I can phone him if you need to talk to him as well. He shouldn’t be gone long.”

“I doubt that will be necessary,” said Sherlock, looking around the kitchen until his gaze was arrested by a shelf containing preserves and what looked like a selection of honey of different kinds. He rose and walked over to read the labels.

“We make it ourselves – or rather, our bees do, obviously,” explained Linda. “Would you like to try some?”

“Later, perhaps. How many hives have you got?”

“Ten, now. We lost three last winter.”

“Have your bees been affected by the _Varroa_ mite?”

“Luckily, no, but we’ve noticed a decline in activity. I can show you the hives, if you like. They’ve been prepared for hibernation at this time of year, of course, but you can still have a look.”

Sherlock smiled. “I’d appreciate that,” he said, looking genuinely pleased as he sat down again and took a sip of his tea. “But for now, I have a couple of questions for you.”

“Certainly. Hope you don’t mind if I remain at the hearth and stir the pot.”

“Not at all. Please recount what happened yesterday afternoon, while the Millers were away. Did you notice anything unusual?”

“Well, we were working and honestly we weren’t paying a lot of attention to what was passing outside. But we’d have heard if a car had arrived, or even if somebody had walked in front of the house because the flint is so noisy. The only creature outside was Lizzy, and only briefly, too.”

“Did she bark, or give any indication that somebody else was about?”

Linda shook her head. “Not that I recall.”

“Does she usually bark when there are strangers about?” enquired John.

“No, she’s rubbish as a watchdog, but very good with children. She’s used to strangers about the place, too.”

“Speaking of strangers,” said Sherlock, “you seem to know the Millers reasonably well.”

“Yes, we’ve become good friends ever since they moved here.”

“Can you think of anybody who’d want to harm them? Katie mentioned that there have been some disagreements over the land they recently purchased.”

Linda’s kind face took on a frown. “Actually, Stu and I have been wondering about that as well. We can’t think of anybody we’d suspect right away. Nobody around here readily springs to mind when it comes to using criminal means to damage a neighbour, but there has been some bad blood. They acquired the land totally lawfully, just outbid the rest, really, those that arrived in time for the auction.”

“Arrived in time?” asked John.

“Yes, there was some kerfuffle because the auction times of two lots had been exchanged, and so some folks who were interested in the land missed out because they didn’t arrive in time. Their own fault, though. The switch had been announced in the local paper long enough, and online, too.”

“Who was selling, and who were the other bidders?” enquired Sherlock.

“The seller was the former owner of the Old Rookery – that’s Susan’s and Peter’s farm. When they’d bought the farm some of the lands had been retained because the new owners, some distant relatives of the old farmer of the Rookery who’d died, wanted to wait and see whether they could build a caravan park or some holiday homes on it. According to what’s been said in the community, they struggled for years to obtain building permission but that it was refused on environmental grounds.”

“Rare butterflies?”

“Yes, and other protected species. Su and Peter only managed to acquire the land because they had the most environmentally sound plan. They want to use it ecologically, and ensure that the habitat will not be disturbed but rather nurtured and protected, for example by keeping the bracken down that threatens to overgrow the heathlands in these parts, and use their ponies and Suffolk sheep for grazing and so keeping forestation at bay.”

“So who else wanted the land? And why did the former owner sell in the end?”

Linda shrugged. “They needed the money, I reckon. Rumour has it that they ran into financial troubles with their company in London, some of these short-lived internet things, and that moreover they’d already invested quite a lot into their caravan park project. I don’t know whether it’s true, but it’s said they tried to ... well ... persuade local officials to grant permission, and that quite a lot of cash disappeared down dark channels. But in the end nothing came of it, for them, at least. As for who else was interested, there were a couple of locals who had an eye on the land. Two of the local pig farmers put out bids, but they’d have faced the same problems with the environment office as the Londoners. Don’t know if you’ve seen the pig farms round here. Most keep their animals in the open, which is relatively animal-friendly and produces good meat, but can be problematic because the pigs virtually leave a wasteland when they’ve been out to pasture for a summer.”

“I would reckon nitrate to be a problem as well,” mused Sherlock.

“Exactly,” confirmed Linda. “There’s the danger of their faeces getting washed into the surface waters and the sea, or seeping into the ground water. The ground it very sandy round here, meaning water gets absorbed quickly.”

“But apart from these interested parties, were there any others?”

"Not many. A few bidders from abroad, one from London and some from round here, and one of our neighbours from across the road. They have a small farm as well and wanted to keep Suffolk sheep on the land, but couldn’t get enough credit from their bank. But honestly I can’t imagine any of those who were outbid to harbour such a grudge against Su and Peter to kill their horses. It seems such a petty, useless thing to do, and also the two instances were so long apart that I can’t see a common motive behind them.”

“But you also believe that the horses were killed, and didn’t just die of some colic?” fell in John.

“It seems the likeliest explanation. Suffolk Punches are a hardy breed. They’re less likely to be affected by these ailments. Moreover, those two as perished were easily the most prized ones of the Millers’ stud. And now the foal is gone, too. I find it difficult to believe that there shouldn’t be some bad intentions behind it. Also, hasn’t Katie had the mare’s stomach contents analysed by that London friend of hers?”

“She has, and toxic agents were found. But there haven’t been any outright threats, have there? Against the Millers, I mean?”

“Not that I know of.”

After this, the conversation died down as the men finished their tea and Linda stirred her onion marmalade.

John watched Sherlock gaze at the rising steam from the pot absently, this mind far away. He wondered what was going on in his friend’s magnificent brain. He didn’t look like he was wandering the corridors of his mind-palace or storing away information there. John was surprised about Sherlock’s civility, too. Even though Sherlock’s questions concerning the events of the previous days had been concise, they lacked his usual sharpness and impatience, and his disregard of social niceties. Nor did they hint at an attempt at beguiling the witness by putting them at ease with a false sense of friendliness and security to get her to reveal secrets she might not do otherwise. No, the conversation had proved constructive and to the point while remaining civil, even amiable. Perhaps the shared interest in beekeeping had done the trick. Still, reviewing the events ever since their arrival in Suffolk, John wondered whether something else was at play to cause Sherlock to mellow so remarkably.

Particularly this morning, but already noticeable last night, Sherlock had been strangely calm and relaxed. His tense, anxious unhappiness of the past days had vanished, and had been replaced by a quiet contentedness, an increased inclination to joke or simply smile, and to take joy in his surroundings even if they didn’t include any corpses. It seemed as if all those things which had weighed so heavily on his mind and heart had been left behind in London. John recalled that a similar change had come over him back in summer, during their trip to France. Things had been uncertain between them still which had created tension, nevertheless Sherlock had revelled in the adventure of cycling in the high mountains, like he did now on the back of a horse, looking both proud and skilful with his straight posture, and ridiculous with the riding helmet and his long legs dangling to both sides of his pony. John smiled as he recalled Sherlock’s blissful, elated expression during his brief ride at flying pace. He’d looked like he had just solved a thoroughly challenging case. It warmed John’s heart to see him so ... well, happy. There was no other word for it. John hope it was going to last.

 

**- <o>-**

 

The ‘interrogation’ over, Linda rose and invited them to have a look at the beehives behind the house. Taking a last gulp of his tea, John followed her and Sherlock through the back door into a large garden studded with fruit trees and berry-bushes. As in Katie’s garden, there was an area designated to vegetables, the rest resembled a meadow. Only around the trees the grass had been mown, likely to make harvest easier. In most other places, grasses and wildflowers had been allowed to grow and go to seed, resulting in a varied meadow with all kinds of stalky pods and coloured leaves bearing witness of a past summer, gossamer threads and cobwebs glinting between them during brief spells of sunlight.

They were following a winding path through this meadow, John walking a few steps behind the other two and watching with some glee how the hem of Sherlock’s Belstaff picked up all kinds of seeds along the way. John stooped and took hold of it after Sherlock brushed past a faded fireweed and the rough tweed of his coat acquired a layer of downy fluff.

“What?” asked Sherlock when he felt the gentle tug.

John raised his eyebrows and lifted the hem. Sherlock snatched it from him and rolled his eyes as he began to pick the seeds from the wool. “What’s the matter, John?” he then asked.

John eyed him questioningly. “Nothing.”

Sherlock sighed. “You’ve been watching me for some time now while hardly paying attention to our conversation. If I were to ask you to repeat anything Linda just told me, you wouldn’t be able to. Instead you observed me with an increasingly ... fond expression, meaning you were clearly thinking about me. So, out with it, what it is? Does my hair look funny because of the helmet?”

John burst out laughing. “You vain prat. Your hair always looks funny with those ridiculous curls of yours. But right now it’s your scarf that looks silly.” He lifted the seed-covered tassles them up for Sherlock’s inspection. The detective dropped the hem of his coat and raised the end of his scarf with a low growl.

“And I did pay attention,” continued John. “I even asked a couple of questions. It’s just ... you’re enjoying this, aren’t you? You tend to moan and complain about being out of London and in the wild countryside, but secretly you love it. Same goes for this case. It’s hardly complex, barely a three or four, and yet you revel in it, in the horses, the surroundings, even the people. Don’t deny it, it’s obvious you do. And I think that’s brilliant. We should do this more often, get out of London, I mean.”

Lowering his voice a little, his expression turning serious, John added, “I was worried about you, you know. These past days, seeing you so obviously stressed and unhappy. Worse still, I didn’t know how to help. It’s better now.”

Sherlock looked at him gravely. “But you were helping. You always are,” he said quietly, before releasing the scarf and turning, briskly following the path to catch up with Linda.

 

**- <o>-**

 

They spent at least half an hour with the bees. As Linda had said, there wasn’t much to see because the insects had already turned in to hibernate. That didn’t stop Sherlock from asking one highly specific question after the other and requesting to see her equipment. Linda, obviously revelling in having such an informed and interested guest, happily showed him around.

“You must come again in the summer,” she said. “Are you thinking of keeping bees in the city? I know many people do.”

“I’ve considered it.”

John raised his eyebrows in surprise. That was news to him. “Where do you want to keep bees in 221B?”

“Your room, of course,” dead-panned Sherlock.

“What?” John exclaimed, before he caught the mischievous twinkle in Sherlock’s eyes.

“Oh, I see. Want me to move into yours, then?”

Sherlock regarded him thoughtfully. “Would you?”

Slightly taken aback by the seriousness of the question, John looked at him surprisedly. “I’d have to test-sleep in your bed first.”

“Feel free. My sheets are better quality than yours, and the mattress is firmer.”

“Of course it is.”

Noticing Linda watching them with an amused expression, John blushed. Sherlock, as so often, seemed unconcerned. “Actually, I think the roof would make a better place for the hives than your room. We can convert it into a lab, given how often you complain about me experimenting in the kitchen.”

“Perhaps I’d like to keep my room for myself, for when I need some space.”

“Space? What space?”

“Space, air, whatever you’d like to call it. Away time from you.” 

“Ah, I see. You usually go to the park whenever you need ‘air’, though.”

Their banter was interrupted by the arrival of Stuart, tall, thin, with a shock of white hair caught in a pony-tail, dressed wellingtons, and jeans bib overalls over an Arran jumper which made him look like a fisherman. He greeted John and Sherlock friendlily with a firm handshake. John noticed that two fingers from his left hand were missing limbs. Apparently there had been an accident with a saw a while ago.

“Have you told them about the lights, Lin?” Stuart enquired when they moved back towards the house.

“Ah no, I forgot. But you’re right, perhaps it’s important.”

“Lights?” John wanted to know.

“Yes,” nodded Stuart. “Yesterday evening on our way home we saw lights near the forest.”

“Is that unusual?” asked Sherlock.

“Not really, if they’d been stationary. There are a few houses and farms scattered about, but these lights were moving, and they didn’t look like they were from a car, more like torches, or those lights you’d wear on your cycle helmet or for running.”

“How many did you see?”

“Difficult to say, but more than one. They seemed to be moving along the forest edge, over the heath. We only saw them sporadically, most of the time they were hidden by bushes and trees, and of course we were moving, too. When we had reached the road we couldn’t see them anymore, so we didn’t investigate.”

“Could you show me on the map whereabouts you saw them?” asked Sherlock. “And then we should be off.”

“You’re welcome to stay for lunch,” Linda invited them. John felt his stomach rumble, upon which Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Thanks for the offer,” said John, “but we’d like to take a look around the forest as long as the weather holds.”

Stuart cast a doubtful glance at the sky. “The forecast said cloudy, but I think it’s going to rain this afternoon. The wind has picked up. Doesn’t look very promising for the bonfire tonight. Will you be there?”

“If we can make it,” said John.

 

**- <o>-**

 

They fetched the map and while John waited with the horses, Sherlock, Stuart and Linda poured over the paper with the Naylands pointing out various places which Sherlock marked with a pencil. Shortly afterwards, they took their leave of the couple and mounted.

The horses had apparently been bored tied to the fence, and were frisky and eager to work. They set out at a brisk walk which soon morphed into tölt. Riding alongside the road for a bit, John saw that there were indeed a few houses hidden behind trees to either side of it, mostly cottages or bungalows of more recent build. But there was no village or settlement to speak of. Then the signs of civilisation ended and gradually, the forest took over. There were large patches of bracken, now brown and dry, smelling faintly of pasta sauce, at least to John. Out of the fern which at times was more than man-high wound birches, oaks, pines and the occasional rowan, crows sitting in its branches to pick at the last of the red berries. Low bushes of pink-flowering heather grew where the bracken had been kept at bay, which in places seemed to have been enforced by cutting it away.

Because traffic was relatively strong, the riders hurried to leave the road, taking the first opportunity to turn left and head into the forest proper. Between large bushes of stingy gorse, a sandy track led into the trees, straight and level. Likely it had been made to allow the foresters to manage the wood with their timber-vehicles. The trees to both sides were mostly pines here, only the fringes were grown with birches and other kinds. Row upon row of trees marched, plantation-like, alongside the riders. What undergrowth there was consisted of bracken.

“Welcome to Rendlesham Forest,” announced Sherlock, reining Fenja to a walk and looking back over his shoulder at John as they were riding single file, despite the forest track being broad enough for them to ride abreast.

John caught up with him, patting Tjálga’s neck affectionately. He smiled. “My nine year old self would have been delighted to be here.”

“The UFO incident took place further south and east, if that’s what you’re thinking of. Apparently there is a trail you can hike, and a leaflet from the Forestry Commission detailing what happened. Or is rumoured to have happened. This is quite an interesting area, even without the UFO sightings. There are several army bases around which were very active during World War Two and the Cold War. Radar was invented round here, or so they claim, and they tested aerial bombing and the initiator charges of nuclear bombs down at Orford Ness.”

“Charming. Wonder if the left-over radiation caused folks to see lights in the sky. I read about the radar. Didn’t they want to invent a ‘death ray’ originally, and ended up with something more useful?”

“So the internet claims.”

Looking around him, John frowned. “You know where we are headed, don’t you? Only the forest is so thick and tangled with all this underbrush, I don’t want to spend the next week wandering around in here.”

“These forest tracks follow a grid pattern, so it’s difficult to get lost with some basic orientation skills,” Sherlock assured him. “We’ll be leaving this one soon, though, and follow one of the footpaths to get closer to the Millers’ lands again. But don’t worry. It’s not the Old Forest.”

Chuckling softly, John gazed at his friend. “Did you just use a Tolkien reference?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, then he said up straighter in the saddle and recited: “‘O! Wanderers in the shadowed land despair not! For though dark they stand, all woods there must be end at last, and see the open sun go past.’”

When John positively gaped at him, he shrugged nonchalantly and grinned smugly. “You give me too little credit, John. I told you I prefer Tolkien to Lewis.”

“I didn’t know this included you being able to quote from the _Lord of the Rings_.”

“I can quote from the _Silmarillion_ , too, and from the _Hobbit_.”

“In that case, watch out for any nasty looking willow trees and giant spiders,” quipped John as they stopped where a narrow track dove into the dense trees to their left. “Guess we better dismount here.”

They did, because the pines’ branches were low and spiky and often covered in fallen needles that rested in clumps on them, caught in cobwebs. Ducking his head, Sherlock stepped into the dense undergrowth, leading his horse behind him. Taking a last look at the overcast sky, John followed behind, feeling very much like Sam Gamgee following his master and friend Frodo Baggins into the Old Forest.

 

**- <o>-**

 

There were no evil willows, and what spiders they encountered were mercifully small. A few squirrels could be heard overhead, gnawing on pine-cones, the remains of their meals snowing down onto the path. Now and again one would dash across their path to hide acorns in the ground. At one point John thought he saw a deer peek out of the bracken, but apart from the furtive noises of the forest creatures and their own and their horses’ steps on the needle-covered or mossy ground, only the sigh of the wind in the branches overhead could be heard. There was a strong smell of wet earth and pine resin, of moss and bracken, and of mushrooms. The path wound to and fro between the trees, and with no sun to guide him, John soon lost all sense of direction. He fervently hoped Sherlock knew where they were headed. John didn’t fancy being stuck in the forest at dusk.

Presently they reached a clearing where several trees had fallen over, likely from the recent storms. Had their path so far been relatively easy to follow despite its snaking course, here it branched off into three, all leading into the same general direction.

“Guess we shouldn’t have been quoting so much Tolkien,” mused John as he gazed at the three dark openings in the wall of trees surrounding them. “This is like the Mines of Moria.”

“Are you worried about Balrogs?” quipped Sherlock.

“I’m worried about you falling,” said John darkly.

Sherlock gave him a long, grave look. “Dont,” he then said. “I’m like Gandalf, you see. I returned as well,” he said gently. “New and improved, so to say.”

“Not sure about the improvement,” stated John, despite knowing that Sherlock had indeed returned a changed man. Pre-Fall Sherlock would not have set out pony riding through the forest, wouldn’t have chatted amiably about bee-keeping with a witness, wouldn’t have cooked John dinner occasionally. Sherlock had returned, not improved in powers of deduction or observational skill, but more human, humbled by his experiences, more ready to admit that he did have an emotional, even sentimental side after all. And John loved him for it.

“Ah, finally I understand about the coat and scarf thing. The hat isn’t quite it, though, and you really have to practise growing a proper beard. Your previous attempts were pitiful at best.”

Sherlock bristled slightly. “You’ve never actually seen me with a beard.”

“You were all stubbly when you returned.”

“That wasn’t a beard. If you insist, I’ll stop shaving.”

“Actually, I prefer you like this.”

“Because of the kissing?” asked Sherlock slyly.

John laughed out loud, startling the horses. “No, you tit – or, well, come to think of it, yes, partly. I just tried to imagine you with a wizard’s beard and I think you’d look utterly ridiculous. Although ... it might help with your chin.”

Sherlock frowned. “What’s wrong with my chin?”

“It’s barely there, unless you look down, then you suddenly have several.”

The remark earned him a withering gaze from Sherlock. “I’ll remind you of the fact the next time to stick your nose in my neck”, he said haughtily. “You didn’t seem to mind the absence of chin then.” 

“Well, I don’t. Makes you look cute.”

“Careful, John, or I’ll start ridiculing your belly and your jumpers.”

They gazed at each other and grinned. “We really are two idiots,” chuckled John.

“Speak for yourself. It’s about time we got out of the forest, before we loose ourselves in banter.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

Getting out of the forest proved more difficult than they had imagined. After some deliberation and a brief consultation of the map, Sherlock chose the middle path as it seemed the most trustworthy. It soon, however, became very narrow, slippery roots crossing it and making walking difficult. Moreover sometimes branches hung so low that even John had to duck under them, and more than once they had to free their horses manes and tails when they got entangled. It didn’t help that there was very little light, and the gloom under the trees made it difficult to gauge distances. But at least like this they were out of the wind. It had increased even more, rattling the tree-tops and causing showers of pine-needles to rain down on them.

Just when he thought they were well and utterly lost and about to get out his mobile to consult the compass app (in the hope it was going to work in this remote maze), Sherlock pointed to the left. And really, there the forest seemed to lighten, and the white stems of birches could be seen, sparse yellow leaves clinging to their branches, indicating the edge of the forest, or at least another clearing. They set out towards the light, and after some struggle through a dense clump of bracken, found themselves on a tangled heathland dotted with trees and large patches of gorse.

“Excellent,” commented Sherlock as he glanced around attentively. “Almost exactly where I wanted us to end up.”

John stepped over to him and brushed some pine-needles and bits of dry bracken from his coat. “Where are we? And was the trek through the woods really necessary?”

“I needed to see whether one could lead a medium-sized horse through the underbrush. As to where we are, the Millers’ farm is over there, behind these trees. You can see a bit of smoke rising from their chimney. Down there,” he pointed slightly to the left, “is their fishpond. The track leading past it on which I saw the hoof-prints ends somewhere over there, where it meets the path coming up from the road.” He pointed to the right.

“And you think the foal is hidden somewhere round here?”

“Yes. Given the trouble we had in the forest with two pony-sized animals which moreover are well-trained, I doubt anybody attempted to crawl through there with a lively foal of a much larger breed. The forest would make a good hiding place otherwise, but it’s not practical. The animal needs to be fed and watered, and in weather like this, it requires shelter, too. Let’s have another look at the map. There were a number of buildings marked around here, and several old sandpits and bunker-like constructions.”

They spread out the map on the ground between them, as much out of the wind as possible, and Sherlock pointed out the structures. “We’re going to have to take a look around. Look for hoof-prints or anything else that strikes you as odd. Bits of hay and straw, perhaps, or anything that hints at a vehicle having used this path in the last couple of days.”

“We better hurry,” said John, when several drops of rain landed on the map. “Looks like Stuart was right about the weather.”

Quickly stowing the map away, they mounted again. As they wound their way through the heather and bracken, the rain increased. Driven on by a strong wind, the drops seemed to find their way into every uncovered nook. John put up the collar of his jacket against it and huddled into the garment, glad about his riding helmet which at least kept his hair mostly dry. The horses didn’t seem to mind, however, their dense, shaggy coats protecting them.

After a bit they reached a low bank, and the track Sherlock had mentioned. Urging the horses into a gentle tölt again, they followed it northwards until they reached a t-crossing where another path joined there’s from the west.

“Is this the path from the Millers’ farm?” asked John.

“Must be,” mused Sherlock. “Hold my horse.” He swung out of the saddle and huddled down on the grassy track. John looked around from his elevated position. His eyes fell on something bright pink and metallic caught in a nearby gorse bush.

“Over there, Sherlock.” He pointed. Sherlock went over and retrieved an empty crisps pack, which he held up to John.

“Clue?” asked the doctor excitedly.

“Oh yes.” Sherlock looked delighted. “Our abductors got peckish. ‘Mega Monster Munch Webs’, bacon flavoured.”

“How can you been sure? The bag could have been blown here on the wind, or lain round for ages.”

“It’s recent. This particular flavour was released this Halloween,” explained Sherlock. He ran a gloved finger along the inside of the bag. It came out covered in fine orange powder. “If the bag had lain here longer, the substance would have clumped together. It’s still fairly powdery. I reckon the bag was dropped when the thieves led the foal along this path. It must be close by. There are faint hoofmarks visible, too, leading towards this clump of trees over there. Come on, John.”

He pocketed the bag and mounted again, in his excitement not heeding that his saddle had been rained on in the meantime. Following the track, they soon reached the trees. Hidden in the coppice was a concrete building, low and bunker-like. It was overgrown by brambles and tangles of honeysuckle, with bracken rising up to both sides. A rusted metal door stood half ajar.

“In there?” asked John doubtfully. The building didn’t show any signs of recent occupation, although there seemed to be a faint path leading up to it through the undergrowth.

Sherlock grinned at him and nodded at their Icelanders. “Watch them,” he suggested.

John frowned, but noticed that both animals had raised their heads and were pricking up their ears attentively. Tjálga snorted. Straining his ears over the sigh of the wind and patter of rain, John thought he could hear a faint answering sound from within the building. Sherlock, looking very pleased with himself, whistled through his teeth. A clomping noise issued from the bunker, and then another sound: the unmistakable neigh of a horse, a high, joyous whinny.

John shook his head. “Amazing,” he muttered, glancing at Sherlock with unveiled admiration.

Sherlock beamed at him. “After you. It’s time we got out of the rain.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The illustration for this chapter is "[Something on your coat](http://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/96528015443/something-on-your-coat-long-overdue)":


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for the kudos and comments. Since at the moment I'm splitting my writing time between this story and my Codebreaker/WWII fic [_Enigma_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1991325/chapters/4313418), updates may take some time. Hope you'll bear with me. All in all I reckon that this story is going to be about twenty chapters long.

It took some strength to open the rusty door of the bunker far enough to lead their Icelanders inside. A strong smell of horse greeted them, mixed with that of hay and oats and a hint of damp. The structure seemed to have been abandoned a long time ago, but it still looked statically sound. In the dim light falling through the doorway and a couple of grimy windows along the sides that were half overgrown by brambles and bracken from the outside, John saw that the building consisted of two rooms separated by another doorway. It didn’t have any actual door anymore, only rusty hinges in a corrugated metal frame indicating where it once had been.

However, some work had been done to the interior recently. The back room had been screened off by some wooden planks, over which now an auburn head with a white stripe down its nose was gazing curiously at the men and their steeds. The foal whinnied again, and the Icelanders answered. Straw rustled when the Suffolk Punch moved about excitedly, snorting and tossing its head. It was indeed quite large for an animal that wouldn’t even be accounted a yearling yet. John wasn’t sure if the foal was able to fully raise its head in its stable. Even Sherlock had to duck slightly while still wearing his riding helmet because the ceiling was very low. Some old cables were dangling from it in a corner, but any lamps or other fixtures had long since disappeared.

The front room was obviously used for storage. A stack of rectangular bales of hay rested against one wall, with enough distance from the entrance to prevent them from getting wet. Next to them were several bales of stray, also relatively small and easier to handle than the large round ones John had seen at the Millers’ farm. There was also a sack that appeared to be containing oats, judging by Tjálga’s invested interest in it. John had to use some gentle force to pull her head out of it. Next to the sack were some water canisters, two of which appeared to be empty.

“They even left a torch here,” announced Sherlock gleefully after snooping around the hay bales, lifting a large Maglite out of a bag of dark cloth. A wire hook had been stuck to the end of the torch with gaffer tape so that it could be attached to the cables and hung from the ceiling. “Well organised, our thieves.”

“Indeed,” muttered John, glancing about. “This looks like a well-planned venture.”

“Particularly considering that they only hatched the plan after the mare was killed. They only had a few days’ time. Bearing in mind that all of them had other commitments, combined with the difficulty of finding adequate transportation, what they achieved is commendable.”

John shook his head disbelievingly. “You almost sound like you admire them. They’re still criminals, Sherlock.”

Taking off his helmet, he scratched his head, grinning briefly when Sherlock divested himself of the headgear as well and ruffled his hair vigorously. Stepping closer to the wooden barrier where Fenja and the foal were amicably sniffing at each other, John glanced into the back room. The light was even dimmer there, but the room seemed larger than the one in the front. The floor was completely covered in straw and what hay the horse hadn’t eaten. There was a makeshift manger to one side beneath one of the small windows, and a water through next to it. In the far corner, more bales of straw had been stacked to create a flat surface where some folded blankets lay. A second halter and some rope had been hung on a hook or nail in the wall.

“I wouldn’t exactly call them criminals,” said Sherlock.

John turned to him. “Oh? What would you call them, then? They stole the foal. That’s a crime. Also, since you seem to know who’s behind all this, would you mind telling me? You know how I dislike your ‘I know something you don’t’ face and the smugness that comes with it. Come on, out with it, impress me. Or are you not sure and are waiting for the final proof?”

“I am sure. But I thought you’d have figured it out by yourself by now. Come on, John. It’s blatantly obvious. Even you should manage to put one and one together.”

John glared at him. “Yeah, right, thank you.”

Running the hand that wasn’t holding Tjálga’s reins through his damp hair, he cast another glance round the improvised stable until they came to rest on the foal which was nosing at his jacket. It looked undamaged and well-cared for, the coat glossy and shining as if it had been brushed recently. There were no tangles in mane or tail, no obvious injuries. Even the hooves looked like they had been polished not long ago. Whoever had abducted it hadn’t wanted to hurt or kill it, nor take it away to sell it on because then surely they wouldn’t have gone into the trouble of setting up this new abode. Still, likely the bunker was supposed to be temporary accommodation only. Surely one couldn’t keep the animal here throughout the winter. But for a few days ... certainly. So, whoever had taken it had wanted to ... do what? Remove it from the farm, quickly? Why? And why bring it here? Surely there were many other farms around where it could have been stabled more comfortably. So the venture had to be kept secret. For what purpose? And from whom?

Aware of Sherlock watching him with an amused but also fond expression, John frowned in concentration. “You’ll get there,” Sherlock encouraged him, the corners of his mouth twitching up in a smile.

“Shut up,” grumbled John, before inspiration struck him. The crisps. ‘Monster Munch’ indeed. Who above the age of fifteen ate ‘Monster Munch’ apart from that one woman who solely existed on them, going as far as eating one particular flavour only? He’d read about her in a discarded copy of the _Sun_ on the Tube. She wasn’t a likely suspect, though. Wrong flavour of crisps.

“Oh God, it’s the kids,” he exclaimed. “The children did it.”

Sherlock’s smile broadened, creating crinkles round his eyes, and doubling his chin. John loved when he looked like this. “Well done. Can you guess their motive?”

John laughed softly, taking in their surroundings again. Now that he knew who was behind it, he couldn’t help but share Sherlock’s appreciation for the organisational skills of the children, despite their somewhat harebrained idea of ‘stealing’ the foal in the first place.

“I think they wanted to get it out of harm’s way,” he suggested. “I’d hazard Emma is the main ‘criminal’. She and her friend from Eyke, Anne? But Emma instigated it, I reckon. The two little ones are likely in on it as well, that’s why Edmund grilled you about detective work and the police last night. But they’d need someone with a car, wouldn’t they? These bales are small enough for a child to carry, perhaps not Edmund and Lucy, but Emma and Anne would manage, one at a time and over a short distance only. But they can’t have lugged them here all the way from the farm, can they? Not in a day or two.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, they had help. Even with wheelbarrows it would have taken a while to get all this equipment here, and it’s almost impossible that they wouldn’t have been seen during the process. There are no marks of a wheelbarrow anywhere to be seen round here. They would have shown on the muddy surface of the paths. But there are clear tracks of car tyres in front of the building and on the way we came, the one leading here from the main road. I doubt the hay and straw was taken from the Millers’ farm. They exclusively make round bales. So the rectangular ones must come from another farm, likely a smaller one with fewer animals to feed and stable, or without the heavy machinery required to make and move round bales. There is another person involved, or more than one. I’m not yet sure concerning their identities. Too many variables. But I’m convinced we’ll learn in good time.”

“What are we going to do now? Call Katie and the Millers to come and fetch their foal and have a stern word with their offspring?”

“No. The animal is safe here, and I’d like to have a chat with our ingenious little thieves before we deliver them to their parents’ mercy. I doubt they’ll get much trouble for their action as their intentions were honourable. Remember, Emma adores this foal. She’d do anything to keep it safe, and without doubt she believed that whoever killed its mother might attempt to get at the foal as well.”

John whistled softly through his teeth. “You believe she knows more about the mare’s death? Something she’s afraid to tell her mum or the Millers? Or the police?” he added in an afterthought. “Could it be possible that the killer put pressure on her to ensure her silence?”

“It’s possible,” said Sherlock thoughtfully. “Even probable. And even if there wasn’t any direct interaction with the mare’s murderer, children often see and hear things adults don’t. Perhaps Edmund and Lucy saw somebody sneak round the farm and told their friends. Perhaps Emma found out something about the killer herself and grew afraid. One must also consider that Emma and Anne are teenagers, a difficult phase. They’re unlikely to divulge all their secrets to their respective parents, however close they may be. No, I think the children might be on to something.”

“Right, so what do we do now?”

“Now we wait,” announced Sherlock, pulling up the stirrups before beginning to tug at Fenja’s saddle girth and unbuckling it.

“Seriously?” asked John doubtfully. “That could be ages. What do we do with our horses.”

“There is enough space in the foal’s stable. We can put the saddles on the stack of bales over there and take off the bridles, too, so the horses can eat. If we stay behind the barricade with the horses, nobody will be able to see us directly when they enter.”

“Yeah, but they’ll see the Icelanders.”

“Not when it’s dark. They’re only likely to notice them once they’re inside the building.”

John frowned at him, but when Sherlock continued to unsaddle his horse, with a sigh he began to do so as well. Outside the rain continued to patter on the roof. The wind howled round the corners of the building, chasing some fallen leaves through the door. John went and heaved it almost shut again. The dim light and the warm smell of the animals made the damp bunker seem almost cosy. Perhaps, John decided, a few hours of rest weren’t going to be so bad.

 

**- <o>-**

 

After some struggle with the wooden barricade, eventually they managed to move both Icelanders inside while still keeping the lively foal behind it. John had harboured some fears that the horses might not get along in the confined space, but after some sniffing and Fenja nipping the foal’s neck, her ears flat against her head, the youngest animal was put in its place and the two mares fell upon the hay in the manger. Meanwhile ‘Ælfi’ the foal went to investigate the other new occupants of her stable, namely the strange two-legged creatures that smelled of wet wool and leather. It turned out they had nothing of interest in their pockets, so Ælfgifu returned to the two Icelanders to annoy them a little by squeezing between them to get at the hay, only to get rebuked by Fenja with a quick bite.

While they were occupied, John gathered some dry straw and rubbed down the Icelanders’ wet coats. He wasn’t sure whether it was necessary. There was no draught in the building and they seemed pretty hardy creatures, but better not take any chances. Moreover the two mares seemed to appreciate it. After a moment Sherlock joined him, taking over Fenja. He had taken off coat and scarf, meaning that John was able to get a good view of the jumper he was wearing. He decided Sherlock should wear it more often.

When they were done, they gave the foal a good rub, too, and brushed it with the grooming utensils Sherlock had found in the bag that had contained the Maglite. The work meant that both men were feeling considerably warm, particularly John who was still wearing his damp jacket.

After inspecting the stack of blankets and apparently finding them too contaminated with horse-hair to sit on them, Sherlock spread his coat over the bales like a blanket, the silky lining on top, then sat down there and withdrew his phone from the inner pocket. John watched as his face became illuminated by the blueish glow from the display. “What time is it?” he asked.

“3:20,” replied Sherlock without looking up. He scowled at the phone, then switched it off again.

“Poor reception?”

“No reception at all,” huffed Sherlock. “Even if we had wanted to, we wouldn’t have been able to inform the Millers or Katie.”

“Hope the kids are going to show up today indeed,” said John, finally divesting himself of his jacket and hanging it on another rusty nail in the wall. “Aren’t they supposed to be at the bonfire later?”

“Yes, but I have a notion that they’ll try to get round attending. Emma didn’t seem to be looking forward to the event in any case, given her sullen remarks at breakfast and during this morning’s drive. I reckon she’ll be feeling ... indisposed. She’ll likely feign a headache or something so she can stay at home or with Anne, and turn up here at some point. Anne’s parents are supposed to fetch the two from school today. I’ve an inkling that the girls are going to claim they want to stay at Anne’s place, perhaps to do their homework, and eventually give her parents the slip.”

John sat down next to his friend. “And we’ll hang around in this damp hole counting on the odd chance that this will indeed be the case? Brilliant.”

Sherlock frowned at him. “You know that my estimations are based on deductions and are therefore sound and realistic. Also, would you rather be out and about in the wind and rain? Both are much heavier now than a few minutes ago. Even in the forest we’d be soaked to the skin in no time. It’s more comfortable in here. It’s fairly dry and even warm, with the horses and us cooped up like this. We’ve got food and tolerable company. What else do we need?”

John gazed at him, taking in his serious expression while he listed all the positive aspects of their current whereabouts, and couldn’t help laughing softly. “Tolerable company, eh? Are you referring to me or our three shaggy ladies over there? I can barely believe that this comes from the man who usually throws a fit when he can’t get at least two bars of reception on his phone while confronted with a period of sitting around and waiting for things to happen. Who are you, and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?”

Sherlock cocked his head. “Perhaps I left him behind in London,” he replied playfully.

John laughed, swatting at Ælfgifu’s curious nose as she tried to investigate his jumper. “Yes, maybe you did. What about you then, mysterious creature that you are? Do you fancy some food?”

“Later.” Sherlock scooted up on the bales until his feet were dangling freely. To John’s astonishment he lay back on his coat, one arm behind his head, staring up at the grubby concrete ceiling, his eyes tracing the odd patterns water-stains and algae had created on it.

John watched him. He knew Sherlock was aware of it, but didn’t seem to mind. He didn’t even look entirely like himself, lying relaxed with his damp hair fanning out onto the lining of his Belstaff. His turtleneck jumper had just the right blue-grey colour to complement Sherlock’s unusual eyes. The cut and material softened the usually crisp lines of his frame. The garment clung to Sherlock’s slender figure, but not tightly like his shirts and tailored jackets. It made him appear gentle, almost cuddly, if such a term could ever be applied to someone as prickly and often abrasive as the world’s only consulting detective. John felt the acute desire to run his hands over his chest, not even necessarily in a sexual way.

Sherlock’s eyes were half-lidded as he observed John watching him. “Brings up memories, doesn’t it?” he asked, his voice a deep rumble.

John lay down next to him, mirroring his position, their heads almost touching. “Memories?” he inquired, not knowing what Sherlock was talking about.

Sherlock huffed. “Yes, obviously. Didn’t you spend some memorable nights in the hay before? That summer when you worked as a stable-hand?”

John blushed, then chuckled softly. “Oh, that. Actually, I wasn’t thinking of it, but now that you’ve brought it up ... yeah, this does remind me. The smell of horses and hay and all that. How on earth do you know about it?”

“Oh, John, you should know my methods by now.”

“Which method? The ‘I look at the ketchup stain on your cuff and deduce your life story’ or the ‘I creep into your room and secretly go through all your personal stuff and thus deduce your life story’ method?" 

Sherlock had the gall to actually grin at this. “It was the latter, this time. And I even told you earlier that I’d been through your things and seen your memorabilia pertaining to this particular event, but apparently you’ve deleted the information. You do remember the summer fondly. Your remarks and the number of photos in your photo box all point that way. You even kept a lock of horsehair and a handful of horse-shoe nails. So there is a high likelihood that you experienced something particularly memorable during your time at that farm. One photo shows you arm in arm with a girl. She’s also present in several other pictures, and there are tickets from when you took her to an outdoor cinema. It wasn’t difficult to deduce that you remember her warmly, likely because you not just befriended her, but actually experienced more than friendship, in fact your first what you’d undoubtedly call ‘real’ sexual encounter. You stayed in contact afterwards for a short while, but eventually the connection petered out. Your memorabilia didn’t indicate whether you ever met her again.”

He gave John a long glance. “Did you?”

John smiled, both about Sherlock’s accurate deduction and his last question. “Tsk, tsk, sentiment, Sherlock?”

Sherlock made a grumbling noise in his throat and jerked his head around to gaze at the ceiling again, pretending to be affronted.

“Hey, don’t be like that. It won’t hurt you to admit that you’re a big soppy romantic at times.”

Sherlock grumbled again and John elbowed his side playfully.

“You know it’s true. Actually, yes, I did see her again. Met her in London some years later while we were both at medical school. We had a few drinks together and a nice chat, and that was it. I remember she was studying veterinary medicine at the time and was preparing to go to Australia for the summer for one of those travel-and-work things. Wonder what she’s doing now. Should try and look her up online some time.”

“Was I right about the rest?”

“’Course you were. Her name was Jody Marsters. She was one of the riding instructors at the farm where I worked that summer. She was older than I, by two years or so. She was one of those no-nonsense persons, very tough and straight-talking. The kids adored her because she treated them like real people and didn’t coddle them. In fact, she was rather strict with them, but had to be, of course, because of safety and all that. She gave me hell the first few days, made me do all the really nasty work. I was more or less covered in horse muck for about a week. There were a couple of other blokes about, and we were in a bit of a competition with each other concerning her. I don’t know how on earth she ended up fancying me when there were ‘cooler’ folks about. One of the guys had a motorcycle. Was a bloody show-off, that one. I loathed him. Another could play the guitar really well and was this cool-looking, confident fellow in his early twenties who’d sit at the fire in the evenings and play and sing. I think he even played in a band. Another guy could do card tricks and tell the most hilarious jokes. And then there was me.” He shrugged. “No idea what she saw in me.”

Sherlock smiled softly at the ceiling. “Obviously she looked closely. And she had good taste,” he stated gravely, causing John to smile as well.

“Thank you,” he muttered, touched.

“You’re welcome. You know it’s true, though, don’t you? You don’t need all those trappings. Motorcycles are wrong and evil. Good for her that she understood that early. Card tricks are easy to learn. Perhaps she preferred the clarinet to the guitar. And your jokes aren’t bad. Well, apart from the one with the hedgehog. I still fail to understand what’s supposed to be funny about it and your well-meaning explanations didn’t help. How did you end up in the hay?”

John cuffed him gently with his elbow again while laughing about the last remark. “Hey, that’s a bit direct, don’t you think? Personal, too.”

“Why? You mercilessly interrogated me about my sexual history and mastubatory habits on our way to Suffolk.”

John flushed. “Right, yes, okay,” he conceded, clearing his throat and running his tongue over his lips. “So I did. You want the full account of how I lost my virginity, then?”

“Yes, of course,” replied Sherlock immediately.

“Arse.”

“Expletives, John? How juvenile.”

“Oh, shut up.”

John also glanced at the ceiling, recalling the instance in all its fumbling awkwardness but also its sweetness and excitement. Sherlock’s elbow prodded his side in turn.

“Well, I’m waiting.”

“Hey, if you keep doing this I won’t tell you anything.”

“Not fair." 

“Then shut up. Or, if you really need to know, why don’t you deduce it?”

Sherlock shifted onto his side and gave him a calculating glance. “I don’t have a lot to go on, do I?” he remarked. “It’s long ago.”

“Didn’t stop you before.”

Sherlock huffed. He arranged himself more comfortably before beginning to study John keenly, his gaze sweeping over his body and particularly his face. John tried to ignore the close scrutiny and the slight discomfort it usually brought at the feeling of his innermost thoughts being read. He was used to it to some extent by now. Sherlock did it to him all the time and there were instances when John was even glad about it because it meant he didn’t have to talk about things. Sherlock simply deduced him and that was that. But there were limits to what even John was ready to divulge, despite Sherlock having stretched these considerably during their cohabitation and friendship.

“Since you remember the event fondly,” Sherlock began thoughtfully, “and likely didn’t just spend one night with her but several – one could go as far as describing your activity as ‘going out with each other’ –, it can’t have been a complete disaster. You mentioned she was older, so I assume she was experienced, at least more than you. Experienced enough to know what she liked, and confident and forward enough to tell you, judging from how you described her character. She wouldn’t have let you fumble around in the dark, but likely told you quite directly what you were supposed to do. At first you were taken aback by her forwardness, but soon appreciated it. So she led, you followed, and mutual satisfaction was achieved. I assume she was prepared when it came to contraceptives, too, likely by taking the pill, but also by supplying condoms, which she helped apply, too, because you were too nervous. Considering this, I would say it was over for you pretty quickly, although you both took your time bringing her to orgasm, the process of which she used as a teaching lesson. Anything I missed?”

John laughed softly, watching Sherlock’s matter-of-fact expression, as if his deduction hadn’t just touched on one of John’s most personal experiences. “Good deduction, as usual. Wonder how you found out all this because surely whatever photos and stuff I still keep from that summer couldn’t have told you everything, but then I guess of all people you know me best. You’re right, it went well, all things considered. Yes, I was bloody nervous, but she was good at easing my nerves. Teased me and made fun of me, too, but in a kind way. So, yeah, all in all I was lucky, I guess. She definitely knew what she liked. She was a good teacher, too, both patient and demanding. She showed me a couple of things that definitely came in handy ... afterwards.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Really?” he asked.

“Yes, you git. Really.”

“Such as?”

“Well, you should know,” returned John smugly. “After all, you’re the one profiting from them now. Things like proper kissing, for example. Sucking on your lower lip, or that tongue thing that always causes you to grip me more tightly and growl a little.”

Blood shot into Sherlock’s cheeks. He cleared his throat awkwardly, looking adorably flustered, all his professional detachment gone. “Oh. Well ... yes, that. I guess I am indeed profiting from Jody Marster’s expertise. But I don’t _growl_.”

Sherlock flopped on his back again, grinning broadly. “Yes, you do.” _Like an oversized kitten._

For a while neither spoke. John wondered whether he had offended Sherlock with his remark, but a brief glance at him showed him looking relaxed yet thoughtful. John wondered what he was thinking about. He hadn’t even replied to his last comment. When even after another minute or two no remark came, John decided that their conversation was at an end. Not that he minded.

Shifting his gaze to the ceiling again, he lay listening to the sounds of wind and rain, the soft rustle of the horses moving about on the straw and their chomping noises as they munched hay. It was easy to imagine oneself back in the hayloft with Jody, only that now he was ‘in the hay’ with a six foot virginal, either a- or demisexual male genius. The situation could have been romantic, even sexy, but this option seemed to have passed Sherlock by entirely. Or perhaps, John mused, he’d been discouraged by what he’d just learned and felt no inclination whatsoever to even engage in some mild cuddling or snogging. Still, this was the man John had more or less pledged himself to spend the rest of his life with. Back during that summer when he’d met Jody – he’d been seventeen –, had somebody asked him how he saw himself in twenty-five years’ time, he’d never have imagined that his life would develop the way it had. But it was good, better than good, in fact.

Stealing a glance at Sherlock again who lay deep in thought, his profile silhouetted against one of the grimy, bracken-patterned windows, John knew he would never have been happy spending an ordinary life in the suburbs with a wife, kids, house, a steady job, the lot. The life he had with Sherlock with all its unpredictability, the danger, the extraordinary, often funny or touching and sometimes awkward situations, this was what he truly craved. It might turn out to be a shorter life because of the ever-looming possibility of an untimely end for either of them, but it was so much more intense to make up for that. John smiled at the ceiling and drew a deep breath of contentment.

Sherlock’s contemplations seemed to have reached a troublesome or difficult point. A quick glance showed the bridge of his nose creased in a frown and his eyebrows drawn together. He hadn’t steepled his hands, though. His right was still behind his head, while his left rested loosely on his chest. Perhaps he was adding new data to the ‘John-Wing’ of his mind-palace, although usually when he was filing away information, he tended to withdraw even more into himself. For a while, John watched how Sherlock’s light-grey eyes followed a spider crawling over the ceiling.

“Are you thinking about the case?” asked John into the companionable silence.

“No,” muttered Sherlock without looking at him.

“Ah, okay.” John turned his head back to the ceiling and closed his eyes. Whatever was occupying Sherlock, he didn’t appear to be in a sharing mood and John knew better than to disturb him further. So, Sherlock wasn’t amenable to talking and a bit of wait still lay ahead. It seemed prudent to preserve their phones’ batteries instead of wasting energy by playing a game or reading one of the medical articles John had downloaded some days ago. He decided he might as well try and take a short nap until the children arrived (of which he still wasn’t entirely sure despite Sherlock’s reassurances). After all, the last night had been rather short. He arranged himself so he was lying comfortably with his head slightly touching Sherlocks. He folded his hands on his belly and let out a long breath as his body relaxed. Slowly, the hushed sounds in the hideout together with the warmth and comforting smell drew him under.

He was about to drift off in earnest, might even have slept a few minutes, when he heard the rustle of straw and felt Sherlock shift next to him, his curls tickling his cheek. “How would you do it?” Sherlock’s deep voice rumbled next to John’s ear.

He roused slightly. “Hmm, what?” he mumbled drowsily, opening and screwing up his eyes to gaze at Sherlock, too lazy to lift or even turn his head. “Anybody come?”

“No, not yet. How would you go about doing it?”

John frowned. “Go about doing what, Sherlock? I’m kinda missing the connection here.”

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes, but instead of issuing a cutting remark about John’s knack for not paying attention, he shifted his gaze to the ceiling again. John noted that his cheeks were slightly flushed. He looked fairly uncomfortable, even embarrassed, but curious all the same. An inkling of what this might be about flared up in John. 

“Does your question pertain to what we talked about earlier?” he asked, gentle amusement in his voice. “My … um … adventures in the hay?”

Sherlock swallowed very slightly. _Bingo_. “Yes, partly. It was just a hypothetical question. Never mind.”

“You don’t want an answer, then?”

Sherlock’s eyes drifted to his face for an instant before they flicked to the ceiling again. “As I said, it’s not important.”

John smiled gently. “Actually, I think it is. I think it’s very important. For both of us. I know this entire topic makes you somewhat … anxious. Makes me nervous, too, to be completely honest. So yeah, perhaps we should talk about it. Gives me an idea about what you might want, and you what you can expect. Should it ever come to it, I mean. Practical application is still to be negotiated, after all.”

“It is?”

“You tell me.”

“Oh.” Sherlock was silent for a moment, then drawing a deep breath, he turned his head again to face John. “Purely hypothetically speaking, then. How would you do it? To me, I mean. Should we decide to engage in … practical application.”

John laughed. “Actually, since we are speaking purely hypothetically here, how would you _like_ me to do it? And also, it’s not so much the question of me doing everything. I wouldn’t want to do anything _to_ you, but rather _with_ you. In my experience there are two people involved in the activity with … er … equal share of the effort. Unless there are alternative arrangements. But since you seem to have been thinking quite a lot about it recently – right, okay, I admit I have, too –, I ask again: what would you like? How would you like it to be? Our ideal first time.”

“I …,” Sherlock looked completely flustered, noticeably struggling to regain his composure and usual aloofness. He cleared his thought. “I asked first,” he returned curtly.

“Crafty,” laughed John. “Tossing the ball to me who’s known to be bad at talking about this stuff.”

“ _Stuff_ , John, seriously?” Now Sherlock sounded amused as well, which John appreciated. The conversation was awkward enough. But considering everything he knew about Sherlock, this was important for him. Only a day ago the man had admitted that physical intimacy, or intimacy in general, scared the shit out of him. No wonder he wanted some fairly reliable information about what to expect before he engaged in any intimate activity. In a way, John felt touched that Sherlock considered him trustworthy enough to supply him with that information, despite pushing him into a situation that was beyond awkward. Sex talk with Sherlock, good God.

John huffed. “Right, okay, _sex_. That’s what you want to talk about – again? And this is the right time and place for it, yeah? With a bunch of troubled kids about to show up here any moment?”

“Well,” shrugged Sherlock, “there is no sign of them yet, we’ve likely plenty of time, and since it’s a topic important for the further development of our relationship and moreover one we’ve both fantasised about for a considerable amount of time … Isn’t that what couples do? Talk about … ‘stuff’?”

“‘Further development of our relationship’? Christ, Sherlock, you sound like one of these magazines we keep in the waiting room at my surgery.”

“I know. I like to read them at times. There’s hardly a better source for all kinds of gossip. Well, old ladies aside.”

John ran a hand over his eyes. “Gossip and crap relationship advice.” He sighed. “You really want to talk about this now?”

Sherlock thought for a moment. “Yes,” he replied earnestly.

John gazed at him, taking in his stern, concentrated expression. He sighed. “So what do you want to hear from me? Want me to describe to you how sex works?”

“I know how it works,” returned Sherlock indignantly. “The mechanics and the biological and bio-chemical aspects, I know about those. In great detail, in fact. I told you, I’ve done plenty of research. I want to know what _you_ would do, specifically. To … with me. Again specifically. What it would be like. The entire procedure from beginning to end. How you would initiate it, how you would proceed.”

He bit his lip. “How it would feel,” he then added quietly.

John glanced at him. This was the heart of the matter, wasn’t it. Not mechanics, but emotions. “So you can decide whether you’d like to engage in the activity in real life?” he asked gently.

“Basically, yes. But also to learn what you’d expect of me, for example. So I can prepare myself. Practice, if required.”

“Practise?”

“Not with others, naturally. The very thought …,” Sherlock’s face distorted with disgust.

John pinched the bridge of his nose. “Right, no pressure, then.” He thought for a moment then shrugged. “I’m not sure I can describe it. Our first time, I mean. It’d pretty much depend on the situation.”

“Describe potential situations, then.”

“Oh God, you’re driving me crazy, you know that? What do you want to hear? Situations that cause me to want to sleep with you?” _Basically every situation_ . _Right now would suit me just fine, seeing you so dishevelled by wind and rain and wearing that bloody jumper, for God’s sake_.

“Yes.”

“Well, okay.” John cleared his throat. “There … um … there’s the post-case high. When you’ve been particularly brilliant and all of Scotland Yard stares at you in astonished silence and you’re radiant with your own intelligence. When you’re like this, I’d love to pin you against the nearest wall and snog you breathless and proceed from there.”

“What do you mean, proceed?”

John growled exasperatedly. “You said you’ve researched it. What do you think I mean? Stick my hands into your trousers and get you off, and hopefully get off as well in the process.”

“So I should stick my hands into your trousers, too?” asked Sherlock teasingly. “My hands are quite large. Not sure they’d fit.”

“Hey, are you implying my trousers are too tight? And you’re not allowed to make fun of this. Any of it. You asked. I answer, as honestly as I can. If you can’t curb your desire to tease me, we’ll stop right here. Do you have any idea how awkward this is? It tops that one talk I had with Harry when she found out about us being together. You shut up or we’ll stop this immediately.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but nodded. “Understood. Go on. What other situations?”

“Well, it could happen when we’re in bed together or on the sofa. You’re always so cuddly” (Sherlock made a face at the word) “and warm and pliant, and I’d want to kiss you everywhere and slowly undress you and then run my hands over you. I haven’t actually thought a lot about proceeding much further than touching and … um … frottage, because I’m not sure you’d want that.”

“Penetration, you mean? Or oral stimulation?”

John was sure he was blushing scarlet. “Yeah. That. Either. Both. Don’t know.”

Sherlock’s gaze on him was calculating. “Would you want that? Either do it, or have it done to you?”

John drew a deep breath. “I … actually, I don’t know. No, that’s not true. If you were to offer me a blow job … God, Sherlock, I’d be the last person to say no to that,” he finished with an embarrassed smile. 

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, I’ve noticed how you look at my mouth at times,” he stated smugly. John dug his elbow into his side.

“Actually,” went on Sherlock, “I might want to try that at one point.”

John looked at him surprisedly. “Really?”

“You obviously enjoy it and you said we should have equal share of the ‘work’. So if this is something I can do for you, why not? The idea is not entirely off-putting, even though the activity seems rather messy and not entirely hygienic. Still, at one point I might like to be on the receiving end of a ‘blow job’ as well, as you so aptly put it. If it’s supposed to be so pleasurable.”

“It bloody is. Not sure I’d be any good at it, though. With a bloke, I mean. The ladies never complained when I went down on them. Anyway, I know what I like and could extrapolate from there. Guess I could try doing it to you. But it can be pretty overwhelming when you’re on the receiving end.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows drew together at that. He looked almost shocked as he swallowed slightly. _Perhaps not, then,_ thought John, not sure whether he was supposed to be sad or relieved.

“What about the other things I mentioned,” he went on. “Anything sound like you might want to try that at some point?”

Sherlock swallowed again. “The kissing and the touching. They … I know I like the former. A lot. More than I thought I would, in fact. I wouldn’t mind if you kissed me up against a wall like I did to you yesterday. Perhaps not at a crime scene, though. Or at least not while I’m still on the case and there is a danger of contaminating the scene and disturbing my though processes.”

He scrunched up his face as if something was troubling him. “Sometimes even the kissing feels like it’s too much,” he then admitted, words tumbling from his mouth like a waterfall. “There are so many sensations, so much going on in my body and my brain that I’m overwhelmed. I can’t concentrate anymore, can’t sort information reliably. It all gets confusing, what pertains to you and to me. I can’t observe you properly, can’t gather what I need to know about your reactions despite them being important information, vitally important. Basically, I loose control of my intellect, and John, I don’t like that. I hate feeling overwhelmed by my emotions and what’s worse, my base bodily functions. If sex is even more intense physically, I doubt I’d enjoy it.”

“I know you hate not being able to think,” said John gently. “And moreover I know that it scares you. Guess it would scare me, too, were I in your situation. But Sherlock, that’s what sex is about, too. It’s about trusting and letting go, letting yourself get overwhelmed and not overthinking everything. And while it’s laudable that you want to try and keep concentrating on me and my reactions throughout it, it’s totally okay to simply enjoy it, or, you know, take turns. Whatever. It’d be totally okay for me if we concentrated solely on you for a while. God, Sherlock, you wanted to know how it’d go about making love to you. I’d do just that. I’d do all the things you indicated to me that make you feel good. I know you enjoy when we kiss, so there’d be a lot, and I mean _a lot_ , of kissing. I’d definitely want to kiss your neck, and lick it, too. I’d not bite it, because you told me you don’t like that. I have an inkling that your earlobes and your nipples are very sensitive, given how responsive you are to my touches in general. So I’d try sucking a little there, to see if you like that. And then there’d be touching, wherever you let me. It’d be clear that whenever you tell me to wait, or stop entirely, I would. Always, and without question.”

He shrugged, smiling at little bashfully, fully aware of the crimson flush that was dotting Sherlock’s cheekbones, the fact that his pupils were more dilated than warranted by the dim illumination, and of the deep breaths the detective was drawing. Someone was rather aroused, it seemed.

“How does all of that sound.”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “It sounds … good. Feasible. I … we could try that. Some time. I might still terminate the activity in case I felt overwhelmed, but all in all … I think it could be enjoyable.”

John chuckled. “I sincerely hope so.” He sobered up and raised himself on his elbow to look down at Sherlock gravely. “I meant what I said. I’d stop any time, and I also meant what I said in the beginning, when you told me you didn’t want sex at all. As much as I’d love to make love to you at some point, don’t ever feel pressured to agree to it. If you don’t want it because it overwhelms you and makes you feel uncomfortable, tell me. If I do anything you don’t like, tell me. If I do anything you _do_ like, also tell me, and I’ll do more of it.”

Sherlock also propped himself up on an elbow. He gave John a long, thoughtful glance, then nodded. “The same goes for you. As far as I understand the matter, it should be reciprocal. The sex.” He frowned. “Would you consider kissing and touching ‘real’ sex when these activities achieved climax? Without penetration, I mean?”

“Yeah, why not? Just because nobody sticks any appendages into another person doesn’t mean they’re not having sex. I had a girlfriend at uni who didn’t like penetration. Didn’t do it for her, she said. Took me a while to understand and come to terms with it, but after I’d overcome my prejudice, we had a lot of sex, definitely ‘real’ sex, and it was excellent. So, yeah …,” he ended a bit lamely.

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll have to do more research on fellatio to decide whether it’s something I might indeed be willing to try on you, but considering that during the activity I am the one in control, I cannot see much evidence of it impending my enjoyment of the act.”

John stared at him in disbelief, his serious, thoughtful expression, before flopping back onto the straw, giggling. “Jesus, Sherlock, you really mean that, don’t you?”

“Obviously. What’s the matter? I can’t see that there is anything funny about it. You should be pleased that I’m considering to go such lengths to accommodate your needs.”

John giggled even more. “I am. Pleased, that is. It’s the way you put it, Sherlock.” He wheezed. “I can’t believe we’re lying in a damp bunker smelling of horse manure and talk about potential future sexual intercourse and you tell me you need to research blow jobs to find out whether you might enjoy them. Guess it’ll do wonders for your browser history. Google will swamp you with relevant ads. Just don’t let Mrs. Hudson see your computer.”

Sherlock chuckled, too. “I’ll use your laptop, of course. And what shall I say, the subject is definitely interesting despite you being so awkward. Or perhaps partly because of it. Moreover, our conversation lets us pass the time more efficiently and amusingly than simply lying here staring at the ceiling.”

He thought for a moment. “Although some of the algae growing on it are rather fascinating since they usually only appear in limestone caves. This tells you that the concrete of the ceiling must contain a high percentage of calcium carbonates and … what?”

John had sat up and raised a hand to silence him. All three horses had lifted their heads and were listening intently. The rain had ceased, although the wind was still strong and howling and whistling round the building. And on the wind, faintly but growing louder, was the sound of one or more motorised vehicles approaching from the direction of the road.

“We’re getting company, it seems,” muttered John. Sherlock sat up as well. He listened for a moment before leaping from the bales and striding towards the barricade.

“Do you think it’s the kids?” asked John, slipping off the bales as well.

Sherlock shook his head, listening closely. “No, I don’t think so. They are more likely to arrive by car. These are motorcycles, heavy ones.”

“Could be quads, too, in this terrain,” mused John, donning his jacket despite it still being slightly damp.

Sherlock gave him a quick appreciative glance over his shoulder. “Yes, you’re right. They are. Three of them. One has a stronger engine than the other two. You should be able to see them from one of the windows over there.”

John went over and gazed out. It was difficult to see much because of the grime and the plants growing outside, but he could descry three dark figures on quads speeding along the dirt track.

“They are wearing helmets and dark bike-gear,” he informed Sherlock. “Look like men, figure-wise. Two of the quads are heavy machines you’d use on a farm, not the fancy ones you see on the roads on the weekends. The third is a bit larger and looks way more expensive and fairly new, too. All three have boxes on the racks like you’d need to stow your helmet in.”

“Or other equipment,” mused Sherlock. He had climbed over the wooden barricade and was standing next to the door, carefully gazing through the narrow opening where it hadn’t been completely pulled to. “They’re passing us by,” he then observed. “They didn’t pay attention to the bunker at all. But who are they, and what do they want here?”

John went up to the barricade, rubbing Tjálga’s head when the mare brushed against him amicably. “Perhaps they were the people with the lights the Naylands talked about. Wonder what they’re doing here. Isn’t this still the Millers’ property?”

“Officially, yes. The track is a designated bridle-path, though, but given that it’s in a protected area, I doubt quads are allowed.” Sherlock turned, gazing at John excitedly with bright eyes. “Saddle our steeds, John. We’re going to investigate.”

“What about the kids? If we leave now and they show up?”

“We’ll keep an eye on the bunker and if the quad riders don’t stop anywhere round here but just carry on, we’ll return. I don’t think it’s likely they’re just passing through, though. One of them was carrying a long object over his shoulder. ”

“A rifle? I’ll definitely bring my gun.”

“I’m not sure it’s a rifle. The noise of the machines will have chased away all potential game, so it’s unlikely they’re here for hunting. Let’s have a look what they’re really up to.”

“Do we really need the horses?” asked John. “If they really stop somewhere close by and we want to creep up to them to observe what they’re doing, we’d be better off on foot." 

“True,” agreed Sherlock. “But two unassuming horsemen shouldn’t be very suspicious to the casual observer, particularly considering how many farms with horses are hereabouts. We’d just be passing by. However, in case we need to give chase, we’ll be prepared.”

“Give chase?” asked John.

“Naturally.”

He beamed at John, who started to smile in turn. _The game is on,_ he thought, and his smile turned into a bright, happy grin. _Let’s hope the quad men are really up to something shady. I could do with a good chase._

By Sherlock’s expression, so could he.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again there's artwork: "[How would you do it?](http://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/96970371998/how-would-you-do-it-the-boys-have-an)"


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for your patience, and for your feedback. Chapter 16 is already mostly written, meaning there shouldn't be as long a pause between updates as there was for this chapter.

By the time they’d saddled the horses, moved them out of the bunker, and readied themselves by donning coat, jacket and their riding helmets, there was no sign of the quads anymore. While Sherlock gave Fenja’s saddle girth another tug, John stood listening and surveying their surroundings, hoping to pick up the faint roar of engines in order to determine whether the riders were still moving, and in which direction. But the only thing he heard was the sigh of the wind in the pine trees some two-hundred yards behind the bunker, the shuffling of the horses, and the rough croaks of crows and high cries of seagulls hovering over a field.

“They must have stopped not far away,” mused Sherlock as he mounted. “Otherwise we’d still be hearing the quads. Moreover they didn’t look like they were riding their vehicles just for pleasure.”

John mounted as well. “Any idea what they might be up to?”

“Several. And most of them illegal. Oh, this looks like it will be fun.”

Eyeing Sherlock doubtfully, John briefly considered getting his gun out of his saddlebag. Sherlock gave him a smirk and a wink, and patted the pocket of his coat.

John shook his head, grinning. “You really missed out on a career as a professional pick-pocket,” he observed.

“Who says I missed out on it?” replied Sherlock. “Let’s just say the relevant skills have come in handy in the past, and not just to nick your gun or Lestrade’s police badges.”

“You mean when you were away?” asked John as he picked up the reins and adjusted his seat in the saddle, angling for the stirrup with his right foot.

Sherlock gave him a grave look. “Yes,” he said curtly, the line of a frown creasing the bridge of his nose. “At times I was as much a criminal as the people I was chasing, if not more so. But I wouldn’t have survived otherwise, even with Mycroft’s help.”

He shook himself slightly as if to get rid of the memories. “Come on, let’s see what our friends are doing.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

They set out in the general direction the quads had disappeared, following the mostly overgrown path northwards in a line roughly parallel to the forest. Even from his elevated seat John found it difficult to gaze far ahead as the heathland was not flat and dotted with clumps of gorse and large patches of bracken, still rising almost man-high despite having turned mostly brown during autumn. Here and there birches grew, their yellow leaves fluttering in the gusty wind, or solitary pines and rowans. Raindrops were glistening on leaves and stalks and in half-torn cobwebs. The sun had ventured forth from between the clouds, varnishing the dark forest with a touch of gold and making all colours more intense. The air was fresh and cool and smelled of bracken and wet earth.

Casting a glance over at Sherlock, John saw that he was crouching in the saddle, his eyes fixed on the ground. Of course, this was the sensible thing to do, and John berated himself for not having thought of it. The quads had left defined tracks on the sodden ground. The trail was easy to follow, even at the increased pace of a gentle tölt.

After a few hundred metres the trees began to increase in density, drawing together in small thickets and copses, with the forest swerving in from the right. The sandy ground rose and fell in rolling ridges. When the riders had reached the top of one, Sherlock held out a hand and reined in his horse. He sniffed the air. “Lucky Strike”, he said.

John drew in some air. He couldn’t have told the brand, but there was a distinctive smell of cigarette smoke. Peering through the nearly stripped branches of the birches surrounding them, he followed Sherlock’s outstretched arm with his eyes. On the far slope of a nearby, bracken- and heather-grown hollow, the three quads had been parked. Next to them, three men were at work clearing vegetation from an area of ground. John noticed that the plants were loose and could be taken off without any tools. Apparently the bracken had been cut previously. It’s leaves were slightly browner and curled up more tightly than the plants further up the ridge. Under his and Sherlock’s observant gaze, the men proceeded to remove the bracken to reveal a greyish tarpaulin, such as would be used for lorries or garden ponds.

From the corner of his eye, John saw Sherlock withdraw his mobile from the inner pocket of his coat. He took several photographs of the men peeling back the tarpaulin. Underneath, the sandy ground had been completely cleared of vegetation and even the top layer of earth and humous in places. Squares of turf were stacked neatly to one side, cut expertly. Next to them was a heap of sand and flinty gravel.

Frowning, John nodded to Sherlock. “What on earth are they doing there?” he asked softly. “Looks like they dug up the ground, but what are they trying to find?”

Sherlock turned to him, even leaned a little closer. He pointed to a patch of heather where the men had deposited their helmets and several sets of tools, a large bag, and the strange oblong object John had seen one of them carrying and which he had thought to be a rifle. It wasn’t, he realised, now that it had been freed of its protective covering. He whistled softly through his teeth.

“A metal detector,” he whispered.

Sherlock nodded, his eyes glinting with excitement. “Apparently our friends think they’ve found some treasure. This looks like a well-planned enterprise. They’ve been here before, more than once. Look how deeply they’ve dug in places. They’ve excavated several different layers of earth and sand, judging from the colouring of the refuse heaps.”

“But what are they digging for, and why cover it up again?” wondered John. “With the bracken on top of the tarpaulin, the site would be completely hidden from casual passers by, such as there are here. It’s not a major thoroughfare in any case, this little path.”

“Apparently they want to keep it secret, and don’t want the elements to disturb it, nor the land’s owners. I’d hazard they had to put off their efforts for a few days because of the bad weather. According to the forecast, they’ve had near constant rain and strong gales for several days. Yesterday evening they came to check whether the tarpaulin and its bracken cover was still in place or if they had been blown away despite their precautions. You noticed how they weighed it down with branches and some of their turfs along its edges? Today they waited for the shower to pass, and now it’s digging time again. Not that it’s promised to be drier. There will be more rain. But if they’re aware of this it could explain their hurry.”

“Yes, I get that, but again, what are they hoping to find here?” A thought struck John. “You don’t think they’re some of those UFO-fanatics looking for parts of an alien spacecraft, do you? You know, folks trying to prove that something did crash-land here over thirty years ago.”

Sherlock actually laughed softly at that. “No, John, I am certain we can rule out the UFO option, intriguing though it might be. As you know, the crash took place further to the south-east, according to the reports. No, I believe they are after actual treasure, and whether by cunning research or by accident, they seem to have actually come across something in the ground during their soundings with the metal detector.”

John watched how one of the men, the smoker and apparently the leader of the little team, the person who had ridden the modified quad, went to retrieve the detector, while the other two equipped themselves with small shovels, a brush, several flat sieves and a canvas roll that, when spread out on the ground next to the excavation, revealed a wide selection of delicate excavating and cleaning tools.

“This almost looks like an archaeological excavation,” mused John, recognising some of the items from episodes of _Time Team_.

“In a way, it is, albeit hardly a legal, scientific one,” agreed Sherlock. “It looks like we’ve found ourselves a group of grave-robbers.”

“A grave?” asked John.

Sherlock nodded. “Compare the shape of the ridge they’re digging into with those of the others in the vicinity.”

John looked around, then back at the excavation site. “I don’t see much of a difference. They’re all fairly low with gentle slopes, and thickly grown with bracken and heather, some even with trees.”

Sherlock shook his head, smiling to himself. “As usual, John, you don’t observe. Their hillock of choice has a more regular shape where its slopes are concerned. Moreover there is a strange dip to the right of their excavation, like someone dug away a part of it that subsequently grew over. Or rather, like the ground underneath partly gave way.”

John stared at him. “You mean that’s not a natural hill but a barrow?”

Sherlock shrugged, looking smug all the same, though. “That’d be one possible explanation for their vested interest in it, wouldn’t it? Suffolk, and this part of it in particular, is known for its ancient grave-sites. The old burial ground at Sutton Hoo is just down the road, only a few miles away. There was word that more finds have recently been made at sites near Rendlesham. Another ship burial was found at Snape.”

John nodded. Yes, this made sense. “Snape? There’s an actual place called that?”

Sherlock gave him a confused glance. “Yes, of course. What’s so remarkable about the name? It was founded by the Romans, and was of some importance during Anglo-Saxon and medieval times. It even had a priory up to its dissolution in the 16th century. So I fail to see what —”

He interrupted his lecture at John’s chuckle. “Pop-culture reference, Sherlock. Even you must know Harry Potter.”

Sherlock scowled. “I heard about him,” he ventured, looking rather out of his depth all the same.

“Well, one of the characters in the books, arguably the most interesting one, is called Snape. Actually, I think you’d like him. He’s quite a rude arsehole most of the time, but one of the most skilful wizards in that world, particularly when it comes to potion making, and one of the bravest. And a big soppy romantic, too. Oh, and he has pale skin and dark hair and swishes around in a great black cloak. Come to think of it, the description rather sounds like someone I know.”

“Very funny, John,” scoffed Sherlock, trying to look annoyed but failing. John smiled to himself. Someone was very certainly going to commandeer some of Katie’s _Harry Potter_ novels this evening – unless he had deleted the episode by then.

Concentrating on the scene before them again, “So you mean our friends here heard about the possibility of another barrow or burial site here and decided to have a look round the place themselves, and then struck gold – or at least metal – during one of their expeditions?” asked John.

“That’s very likely.”

John scratched Tjálga’s neck thoughtfully, tousling her thick mane. “Would be interesting to learn whether the blokes over there ever stated interest in acquiring these lands. I mean, this heathland is quite large, and there are a number of small hills and ridges. Why look here? They must have been lucky indeed to find anything, even with metal detectors.”

“It’s possible that the barrow was marked on old maps,” mused Sherlock. “I don’t remember spotting it on our OS map, but I’d need to check again to make sure. Perhaps it _was_ marked, but not explicitly described as a barrow. Still, to find out about such things, a visit to a local library or historian might have been helpful, or simply by paying attention to old folk tales and ghost stories which are often linked to or inspired by features of the countryside, particularly unusual ones.”

“Oh, you mean like Dewer’s Hollow back in Dartmoor?”

“Yes, although it seems to have acquired much of its notoriety in fairly recent times. Anyway, I’m rather convinced our three grave-robbers here knew where to look, and what to look for. They’re not doing this for the first time, judging from their equipment and the way they’ve been going about the venture, particularly their attempts at keeping it secret.”

“Metal detectoring is not illegal per se, is it?” enquired John.

“No, it isn’t, as long as you have obtained permission from the landowner. Something about the way they’ve prepared their site against discovery tells me they have neglected to ask the Millers. Also, there is an ongoing dispute between hobby detectorists and archaeologists, the latter accusing the former of destroying important evidence by taking pieces out of their context and contaminating sites, rendering them useless for further scientific research, while the former claim that archaeologists often have too few means to scan larger areas, resulting in artefacts being lost to agriculture and building sites. It also depends where they use their instruments and dig up artefacts. Protected areas, either because they’re of archaeological or historical significance, or are nature reserves, are usually off limits for hobby detectorists. If I remember correctly, this piece of land here would fall into the latter category because of the rare butterflies. You remember.”

“What about potential finds?” John wanted to know, not even wondering how Sherlock knew so much about the legal aspects of detectoring. “Can they just keep what they find? Who does it belong to?”

“It depends on the nature of the find, but usually the landowner has sole title on anything found on their land. But they often come to agreements with the actual finders, as happened for example with the Staffordshire Hoard a few years ago. I’m sure you heard about that.”

John nodded. “Do you know how much they received for that hoard?”

“I’m sure they were appropriately recompensed, since it was classified ‘treasure’.”

“What constitutes as treasure, then?”

“Items with a certain percentage of gold and silver that are at least three-hundred years old. There are other definitions, too, however. Basically, if some old artefact is found on your land, you have to report it to the authorities and the coroner will decide whether it’s classified as treasure. Then you have to offer it to museums, who either pay you, or they can’t, or claim they’re not interested, in which case you may retain the item and do with it as you please. Well, well, it looks like our friends here are trying to circumvent all those requirements and procedures by simply grabbing what they can and scarpering.”

Scowling, John watched the men as they started to dig after the metal detector had given a signal. They were working speedily and efficiently, but even according to John’s rather surficial understanding of archaeological procedure (mostly based on TV documentaries and some lengthy conversations with students of the subject during his university days), he could tell that they were not interested in a scientific study. The only care they seemed to employ was not to damage whatever they were hoping to find by digging too vigorously.

“Looks like they’ve struck gold indeed, or something they consider valuable,” he mused. “Who buys these things?” he then asked. “I mean, I’ve seen the bits and bobs from the Staffordshire Hoard when it was exhibited at the British Museum. Most of them hadn’t even been properly cleaned yet and certainly didn’t look like much, although many items were of gold and inset with garnets, and showed pretty impressive workmanship, considering they’re so old. But other things looked less impressive. I mean, even some of the stuff they have from Sutton Hoo is just clumps of rusty iron or corrugated bronze. And even if it’s gold or silver, the metal value of small pieces can’t be worth all this effort. And if they’re not offering to museums, who else is interested in that stuff?”

Sherlock cocked his head. “From what I heard, the value of the Staffordshire Hoard was estimated at several million pounds, meaning that both the landowner and the discoverer literally made a fortune. And there are a number of collectors around, and even small museums with less than optimal funding, who don’t look too closely how legally an ancient piece was discovered and excavated. Remember the Black Lotus’ flourishing trade with Chinese antiquities. They often already had buyers in the West who more or less commissioned pieces, mostly for their own enjoyment, I’d say, or as a form of investment like one would in a property or a work of art. The smugglers just delivered. Here, we see some of the original ‘providers’ of ancient artefacts.”

He snapped some more photographs with his phone, zooming in on the men’s faces. “Can you deduce anything about the three men from their appearances?” asked John.

Sherlock smiled grimly. “They’re too far away to make out details of their features, but obviously their clothes, equipment and general build and bearing tell a story.”

He straightened in the saddle and drew a deep breath. John braced himself for the inevitable rush of deductions which Sherlock delivered at lightning speed, but always articulate and precise.

“The smoker wielding the metal detector is the leader of the trio. He rode the largest quad. It looks like a new model, modified for greater speed and elevation. It’s less dirty than the other two machines which likely have been used round local farms and in the fields. He looks quite fit, but not because of physical labour which would have resulted in a more powerful, bulky build. He’s lean and sinewy, a runner, long distance, perhaps even marathons. He’s too old for being a professional sportsperson, though. He looks like he’s in his late forties but could be slightly younger. Strong tan, has been abroad where there was a lot of sunshine recently. He wore a hat or cap, though, and sunglasses, because his forehead and the region round his eyes received less sunlight than the rest of his face, particularly his nose. The back of his neck is also strongly tanned, making the cap more likely than the hat. His clothes and particularly his shoes haven’t seen much wear. They’re outdoor clothes all right, but new and from fashionable brands, nothing a hands-on archaeologist would wear on a dig. Also, he rode his quad less confidently than the other two, which could mean he doesn’t the same level of experience handling these machines. He gives the impression of an intellectual with some knowledge of archaeological procedure who doesn’t usually go on field trips. He _is_ used to being a person of authority, however. Look how he instructs the other two where and particularly how to dig and what tools to use. In all likelihood he is some kind of archaeological academic or historian gone … freelance.”

“And the other two?” enquired John, impressed as usual by Sherlock’s mental leaps.

“They look like locals. Judging by the similarity of their features they are related. Brothers, or at least cousins, the former being more likely. The one digging at the moment is the elder of the two, mid-twenties. The other one seems to be barely out of school. His clothes are well-worn, working outfit, something that he’d wear during his daily work, likely on a farm or a building site. His physique indicates regular physical labour. He was the most proficient quad rider despite his old machine, indicating he uses it frequently in rough terrain. Looks like he still lives at home. There was a long tear in the sleeve of his jacket with has been mended. He seems to be attached to the garment which shows signs of personalisation as indicated by the applications. One looks like an Arsenal badge. I can’t recognise the others due to the distance. The repair was undertaken by somebody who knows about darning or repairing leather clothes. Moreover, his jeans have been recently laundered and pressed. No young man living on his own irons his jeans.

“The older digger’s garments also show signs of having been worn where they repeatedly got dirty and slightly damaged, but they don’t fit him as well anymore. The trousers and the jacket sit a bit loosely. He lost weight recently. His complexion does not look like that of an outdoor worker, either. Compare it with that of the younger digger. They have a similar skin type, but look different. The elder brother sports no tan, has barely any freckles. He’s wearing an University of Essex cap, and from what I can make out a t-shirt with Celtic knotwork and some kind of stylised dragon creature. I’d say he hails from round here, but left to study at Colchester, likely something in the natural sciences.”

“What makes you think that?”

“He’s pale, dark shadows under his eyes. He spent the past months either in a lab, the library or behind a computer screen and so lost muscle mass and whatever facial tan he acquired over the summer. Also, he seems to fit the cliché of a fantasy-obsessed nerd. Look at his hair.”

John took in the ponytail showing under the cap and shook his head, grinning. “Says the man who not long ago quoted Tolkien at me in the middle of a forest that looked like it had been devised by the Professor himself. You read chemistry, right, back at Cambridge?”

Sherlock glared at him, causing John to laugh softly. His amusement at Sherlock’s expense was even increased when Sherlock took off his helmet and unconsciously fluffed up his flattened curls with his free hand. _Look at the hair indeed_ , thought John.

He sobered up, however, when Sherlock dismounted. “Here, hold the reins,” he demanded, tossing them to John who caught them reflexively.

“Hey, what are you up to?” John asked. “If you think of going over alone and accosting them in your charmingly direct manner, you can forget about that right away. They’re three, and they don’t look like they’d take kindly to anybody interrupting their little party. We’re both going, or nobody is.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry, John, I wasn’t going to simply walk over. But I’d like to take a closer look at their digging efforts, and hopefully film them in action. What they’re doing is definitely illegal, whatever their motivations, and therefore we should try and acquire whatever proof we can for a possible criminal prosecution. The digital zoom on my phone leaves much to be wished for, therefore I need to creep closer. The bracken is high enough to provide cover for a considerable length of the way. Still, you may need to provide some distraction, to make sure they won’t be tempted to look my way. We’ll leave Fenja here – she should be well hidden in those trees and the gorse-bush over there, then you return to the path and ride round to the other side so you come up the barrow from behind them. Try and get a look at the license plates of the quads, if they have any. I rather doubt they do.”

John’s eyes narrowed. “Sherlock,” he said warningly, “this sounds very much like you’re planning to show yourself to them, after your little filming session.”

Sherlock held his gaze for a moment before lowering his. He sighed. “Surprise is our best bet. Pretend to just stumble upon them, play innocent, hope they make a mistake —”

“And get your head bashed in while doing so.”

“Why would they do that?”

“Because they don’t want to be found out, perhaps? You saw yourself to what lengths they went to hide their little undertaking.”

“Still, why attack me? They don’t look like killers. Not even proper criminals, come to think of it, more like an intellectual and his two goons on a grave-robbing holiday. A bit like in those movies with that whip-swinging professor you like so much. Still, ”Sherlock looked up at John through his lashes and smiled sweetly, “I didn’t say it won’t be dangerous. We can’t be sure how they’re going to react.”

“Well, we don’t need to show ourselves at all, Sherlock. Did that thought ever cross your mind?”

Sherlock gave him his patented ‘Oh please, John’ look. “Do you seriously want to turn round, ride until we have mobile reception, and call the police?” he asked, both eyebrows raised. “By the time they’ve arrived from Woodbridge, it will be dark and our three industrious gentlemen will have packed up again and vanished, perhaps with what they came to find.”

John scowled at him darkly, licking his lips. “Damn you.” The bastard knew him better than he had any right to. Calling the police would indeed be the sensible thing to do. With the photos they’d already taken it shouldn’t prove too difficult to at least ascertain the identity of the two assistants, particularly if they were indeed locals. But then, turning round definitely constituted as the boring option …

“Right, okay, you win,” snarled John. “I’ll play distraction. But I want my gun, and I want you to promise me not to try anything reckless and stupid. You’ll stay in the bracken and watch and listen and record their actions, and only if it’s strictly necessary you’ll stick your head out. Understood?”

Sherlock sighed heavily. “John, you know m—”

“Promise, Sherlock. And yes, I do know you. That’s why I demand your word on it.”

Sherlock sighed again. “I promise, John. I’ll wait with any reckless action until you’re in range, and leave the stupidity entirely to our friends over there. Satisfied?”

John grunted an affirmative, not entirely convinced, but equally excited about the venture, and, as usual, trusting Sherlock to know what he was doing.

As if to reassure him, Sherlock placed a hand on his thigh. John noticed he had forgotten to don his gloves again, but it didn’t seem to bother him at the moment. The warmth of his hand was palpable through the denim of his trousers and sent a spark through John. God, this ridiculous, incredible man. If he was honest with himself, he’d follow him anywhere, into whatever harebrained scheme his magnificent mind devised. He placed his free hand over Sherlock’s and squeezed it briefly.

“Ride a wide berth so they don’t see you as you climb the barrow,” instructed Sherlock after withdrawing his hand again. “I’ll wait here for another ten minutes, then I’ll move.” Digging the Sig out of his coat pocket, he handed it to John, who quickly checked if the safety was on (one never knew with Sherlock), then stuffed it into the waistband of his jeans at his back.

“Right. Take care, Sherlock,” he said sternly. “I mean it.”

Sherlock gave him a cocky grin, which, despite his attempt at maintaining a stern expression, John felt compelled to return. “You too,” said Sherlock, before snatching back Fenja’s reins and beginning to lead her off to the thicket he had indicated previously.

 

**- <o>-**

 

The sun was being swallowed by a bank of dark clouds when John carefully guided Tjálga back to the path they had come and across it, into the dense, tussocky world of heather, bracken and gorse. He let her pick her own path, and eventually they hit a narrow, winding track that looked like it had been made by animals. Here and there the droppings of rabbits could be seen on the ground, with the short grass indicating where they had grazed. The wind had increased even more, blowing strongly from the west and tearing at the horse’s mane and tail and creeping into the collar of John’s jacket. Apart from its roar, the rustle of the plants and the steady footfalls of the horse, there were no other sounds. John had no idea what was going on near the barrow.

He glanced at his watch. The ten minutes were up, Sherlock was likely on the move now. _Strike that, the twat set out five minutes ago, at the latest_ , thought John grimly. _He can tell me what he likes, but I’ll never believe that he stood waiting patiently with his horse when there’s a crime in process in front of his very eyes._

John urged Tjálga on while still keeping her at a walk, curbing her inclination to tölt which he thought too dangerous in the rugged terrain. Through a copse of birches to his right, he suddenly saw the barrow again. This side of it was less densely covered in bracken but rather grown with heather. There was another dip in its otherwise fairly regular shape, and now that he knew what he was looking at, John couldn’t have mistaken it for a natural hillock anymore. In fact, this indentation despite its plant cover didn’t look entirely natural, being too regular in shape. The vegetation showed no signs of recent disturbance, however. Perhaps, John concluded, people had tried to raid the barrow before. He still wondered how so fairly obvious a landmark could have been overlooked by scientists, especially because the region was known for its archaeological treasures and must have been searched or screened before. Well, in any case the Millers were in for a surprise, since apparently they hadn’t known about what was situated on their land, either.

The working men and Sherlock were hidden from view, but John could descry two of the quads. He rode on a little farther until he was level with the foot of the mound, then cautiously advanced, pricking his ears to try and pick up any sounds that might hint at Sherlock having done something stupid, or at least to overhear whatever conversation the three men might be having.

The wind was too loud, however. John looked up at the crown of the mound. If he rode up there, he’d be far more visible from below than if he went on foot. On the other hand, if any of the three tried to escape, on horseback John would be in a better position to give chase, although doing so on this uneven ground would be dangerous. After a brief deliberation, he dismounted, and leading Tjálga by the reins, he slowly climbed the mound.

The first thing he noticed was that all three quads lacked license plates, not that he had really expected any. When he had almost reached top, he saw that the actual crown of the barrow had caved in as well. Perfect. Stealthily moving forward, he led his horse into the shallow dip and crept on without her until he could gaze at the scene below, himself partly screened by wet bracken, wind-swept heather, and a small gorse-bush.

From his hiding place, he tried to make out any trace of Sherlock. He could see the copse where he had left Fenja. Even the horse was recognisable as a dark shape if one knew what to look for. But Sherlock himself had vanished. Or had he? What was that dark blob half hidden in the bracken a little to the left next to where the men had piled the tarpaulin? John wasn’t sure, but it could be Sherlock’s tousled head, adorned with some curled leaves of fern. So he was hidden still, despite having crept very close to the diggers. Closer, John thought, than was strictly necessary. Or wise. But that was Sherlock.

Over the wind, John suddenly heard the beep of the metal detector, followed by an excited mutter from the men. “Dig here,” said the one wielding the detector, the one Sherlock had described as the leader of the trio. The two others obeyed.

“Carefully,” the overseer commanded, his voice slightly hoarse as if he was suffering from a sore throat. He spoke with a refined accent, much like Sherlock, bolstering the latter’s theory of the man being a rogue academic. He sounded fairly posh, his voice sharp and cutting like Sherlock’s when he was at his most intimidating, but higher, more tenor than baritone. “Try not to damage anything. Wait. Hold it.”

The last words were spoken in an excited rush. The man deposited the detector on the ground and rushed to the two others, equipping himself with a small brush and a torch from the toolkit. “Do you see the discolouration of this layer?” he asked, illuminating the ground with the lamp. “Give me the camera. This looks like traces of iron in the sand.”

He snapped a picture with a small digital camera, before handing the torch to one of his assistants, kneeling down between the two diggers and brushing at the sand. John wasn’t able to see what exactly they had found. The academic held up an imperious hand, and other instruments were passed to him with which he carefully scraped at the earth. There was an awed whistle from the elder of the two assistants.

“What’s this, doc? A corrugated mail-shirt?”

“Looks like it,” came the pleased sounding answer. “Not much left, but you can still see that the rings were riveted instead of being just clasped together. This was an expensive piece of workmanship. Give me one of those bags. Let’s see what else is here. The person buried here must have been wealthy and of high status, so there’s a good chance for more valuable finds.”

As they dug further into the mound, John looked out for Sherlock. He was still hidden well and didn’t seem to have moved about much. John briefly spotted his hand holding his phone extended out of the bracken. Then it was withdrawn, and John could see some of the tall plants sway slightly when Sherlock crept backwards. John wondered what he was going to do next, apprehension growing. It wasn’t like Sherlock to let the grave-robbers’ activities pass without comment. _Always the last word_ , thought John, fighting a mental image of Sherlock appearing before the rogue archaeologists resplendent in a leather jacket and fedora, and telling them sternly that their finds belonged in a museum.

Ultimately, there was neither a fedora nor a leather jacket although Sherlock, the twat, did of course show himself to the three men. John shook his head in silent disapproval when, about ten minutes after he had withdrawn through the bracken, Sherlock rode up to the mount, deliberately fully visible to the three men. What on earth did he want to achieve with an action as foolish as this?

Casting a quick glance over his shoulder to ascertain that Tjálga was still there and hadn’t wandered off, John readied his phone to record the confrontation. His gun he had placed next to where he was lying on the damp ground.

Sherlock rode on slowly, his eyes fixed on the path as if he was looking for something. He didn’t seem to be paying attention to what the three men were doing, seemingly not noticing how they froze in their movements and then slowly distanced themselves from their excavation site, positioning themselves so that the hole was shielded from view by their bodies. 

When finally he did look up, Sherlock pretended to be surprised to actually find another human being in these parts. His face contorted into the expression John recognised as the ’slightly dumb but very harmless and friendly’ smile he usually donned when he was trying to charm his way into people’s flats, or simply to get them to talk to him. It made Sherlock look very unlike himself: shy and a little insecure, his sharp features softened. His entire bearing has changed, too. Slumping in the saddle, his shoulders rounded and his chin drawn up, he did look rather like some kind of bumbling clot. He’d even turned down the collar of his coat, John noticed, and had tied his scarf very inexpertly, giving the impression of a true scatterbrain.

“Oh, hello,” Sherlock greeted the three men. His voice sounded different, higher and softer, the articulation less precise. He was speaking with a slight Essex accent, seemingly trying to pass as a local.

The three men gave him a nod. “Afternoon,” replied their leader.

Sherlock urged his horse closer. “Have you been here long?” he asked.

The two assistants exchanged a quick glance, apparently undecided whether it would be wise to engage in conversation with the stranger and risk him hanging about. The leader made an almost imperceptible gesture to reassure them that he was going to handle the obvious nuisance. “No, we arrived after the rain.”

“Ah, okay,” said Sherlock, looking rather distraught but continuing to advance slowly. “It’s just, I seem to have lost my phone. It must have slipped out of my coat pocket when I passed this way earlier. I was riding fairly quickly, and there are so many bumps on this path. I was wondering if perhaps you had found anything. It’s an iPhone in a bright blue case. Should be easy to see, but so far I’ve not been lucky.”

“Sorry, but we didn’t find anything,” came the curt reply. “We’d have spotted it.”

Sherlock made a dismayed face. “Ah well,” he sighed, glancing up at the overcast sky. “And it’s getting dark soon, and there’s more rain coming. How very inconvenient. I doubt it’ll last a night in the damp. Such a nuisance. It’s brand new, and it took me ages to get all my music onto it. And all the photos I took round here will be lost, too.”

“Well, you could always try the online search,” the older of the two assistants fell in, which earned him a dark glance from his boss.

Sherlock pretended to look confused yet slightly hopeful. John marvelled how somebody this intelligent managed to come across as utterly stupid by just rearranging his features slightly and changing the pitch of his voice. Well, maybe the Essex slang helped a little, too, but then John was prejudiced after too much crap telly.

“How do I do that?” Sherlock asked, having almost reached the men and reining his horse in front of them.

“Well, you’d need to have the search function enabled on the phone, or GPS at least, and then you can try and locate it via the internet. If there’s enough connection, of course, which often isn’t in these parts. And it only works if the battery’s still got some juice left.”

“Oh, crafty,” said Sherlock, looking so guilelessly fascinated that John had to grin to himself. “I wasn’t aware of that. Yes, the battery should still last for a while. It was full when I set out. I always load it before I leave the house, you see. One never knows. You don’t happen to have an internet savvy device on you I could borrow for the search, do you? I see you’re well equipped with electronics and other tools. Is this some archaeological excavation, by the way? It looks like one because of the shovels and brushes, like on the telly, you know. How fascinating. What are you hoping to find? Do you think there is any treasure hidden here, like they found over at Sutton Hoo?”

John could only see a part of his face, but it was animated with interest. The three men seemed a little overwhelmed by the flood of questions, exchanging cautious glances. John surmised that Sherlock was trying to make them lose their reserve and annoy them into revealing their motives. He was very good at annoying people. But so far, the three were holding out. At length the leader spoke again.

“I’m afraid we can’t help you with equipment since what have and use here is of course geared towards our work. Also, we’re not at liberty to reveal anything about this excavation as it is a highly scientific matter. You understand that we need to keep it secret so as not to attract criminal activity.”

John snorted at this. Sherlock, too, seemed to momentarily have problems keeping his face straight. “Oh God, you mean like grave-robbers? Of course that’d be a danger. Rest assured that I won’t tell anybody about it. I didn’t even notice there was some archaeological excavation going on when I passed by here earlier. I just thought this was a beautiful landscape with these little hills and valleys, and the autumn colours all round. That’s why I took the photos, you see. I hope to get them published in the local paper, or even in that calendar competition at Ipswich.”

A thought seemed to strike him. “Strange, though, that the owners didn’t mention anything to me when I asked them whether I was free to ride anywhere on their land when I rented the horse. You’d imagine they’d have warned me to stay away from these parts to give you some privacy and not disturb your research. I’ll remind them to inform future guests not to ride here. It’s mostly children, you see, who ride the ponies. No, the horses. I have to say it correctly. They’re Icelanders, after all. But imagine the children finding this site and messing up your excavation, or worse, grave-robbers to empty the site of treasure. Have you found anything of importance yet?”

He made to dismount and approach the site, upon which the older of the two assistants, after a subtle sign from the leader, stepped forward and took hold of Fenja’s bridle.

“Sir, I’d discourage you from stepping closer,” said the academic, his voice steely. “As I said, this is a highly sensitive scientific excavation. We cannot risk you or your horse contaminating it.”

“Ah, yes, of course. Stands to reason. I’m just so curious,” Sherlock tried to placate him, stretching in the saddle order to catch a glimpse of the site. “I’ve been to Sutton Hoo so many times and watch _Time Team_ every time it’s on. I read archaeology at university for two terms, you understand. I’ve always wondered what it must have been like to be present when they excavated Sutton Hoo. And seeing this here now ... you must be so excited. And I promise, I won’t tell ...”

He was babbling. John could tell from their expressions that the three men were beginning to lose patience as inevitable annoyance set in. The looked very eager to be rid of him. He wondered what Sherlock’s plan was. He hoped he actually had one, other than vexing the three men to a point when they might use violence to shut him up. Still, what would be the point of that? They had plenty of evidence in the form of photos to convict the three. Moreover there was the actual excavation site which wasn’t going to run away even if the three men managed to escape now. So what on earth was Sherlock trying to do? Well, at least he could count on John backing him up. As John was watching him make a fool of himself in front of the others while potentially endangering himself, one against three, John wondered if Sherlock had been as reckless when he’d been on his own, somewhere in Europe, Asia or the Americas, without anybody to watch over him. John knew he had risked his life back then repeatedly. For him. To protect him. Had he also thrived from the thrill of the chase? Somehow, John doubted it.

“Sir, I must ask you to leave now,” the leader told Sherlock sharply, bringing John’s mind back to the present.

Sherlock straightened in the saddle, gathered up the reins, and let his mask drop. “Yes, it must be very inconvenient for you to suddenly have company here,” he said, his voice sharp and precise, with no longer any trace of the Essex drawl. “Illegally excavating what looks like a promising archaeological site without any proper license or scientific backing, just for your own profit. Tsk, tsk, how naughty. But then, one has to make a living when one’s original career has gone down the drain. Not unexpectedly, though. What was it that cost you your post at university? Quoted a bit too much in your PhD thesis without proper identification of the sources? Always annoying when misconduct like this is discovered years after one got comfortable at an institution, isn’t it. Or did you redirect academic funds into your own accounts? Well, a little grave-robbing on the side has definitely been profitable, judging from your new watch. Tag Heuer, limited edition. Just the right thing to dig in the dirt with. And what of your two eager assistants here? Uni not going well, is it? Began the research for your Master’s thesis too late. Lab work does take so much time, doesn’t it. Pity you didn’t listen to those who were trying to warn you of this before. And farm work doesn’t really get rid of the loan you had to take up to pay off your new car, which sadly you wrapped round a tree not long ago, does it. How handy this must come in, then, this barrow hiding what looks to be a second Sutton Hoo. Pity, though, that you didn’t consider long-term options. More money can generally be made from opening these sites to the public after they’ve been properly excavated and researched. Imagine a share of the profits from café and gift shop. Ah, but then there’s the danger that the National Trust or English Heritage are going to take over. Oh, and the landowners might want a share, too. Greedy bastards, even though the land’s theirs by right. Yes, better do it your way to ensure maximum profit. After all, you’re just after quick cash, not long term fortune and glory. No permission from the landowner, indeed working without their knowledge means no on to share one’s findings with. And by simply bagging what you find there’s no need to trouble a coroner, or approach a museum. How very convenient when you’ve got the right connections and can just sell a few rusty pieces of metal to the highest bidder.”

He cocked his head, watching the three men who stared at him. The two assistants looked shocked, while the other’s rising fury was visible even from a distance. He was clenching his hands, his eyes blazing. John raised his mobile and pressed ‘record’ again to conserve his reaction. He watched as the man stepped closer to Sherlock and grabbed the leather strap at the pommel of his saddle.

“I suggest you dismount after all,” he said, his voice dangerously soft.

Sherlock gripped the reins more tightly. John thought he was readying Fenja for breaking free of the three men surrounding them now. The youngest had picked up a shovel and was holding it rather like a weapon, while reaching for the leading rope that was tied round the mare’s neck. Did they intend to knock Sherlock from the horse. They didn’t seem like killers, but judging from their expressions they had a mind of silencing the nuisance, at least for a while.

“I thank you for your kind invitation, but I have to decline,” quipped Sherlock. “Actually, I should be on my way.” He tipped his riding helmet in a mock salute. John closed his eyes for a moment and breathed out through his nose. Sherlock was really overdoing it now. But it seemed to work.

The leader jerked his head, and the elder of the brothers gripped Sherlock round the middle in an attempt to pull him off the horse. Sherlock held on to Fenja with his thighs, pulling her up so that she reared on her hind legs. But the other brother had dropped his shovel and had attached himself to her bridle, effectively pulling her head down with his weight. She landed heavily on her forelegs again, snorting and trying to toss her head. It was obvious he knew how to deal with frisky horses and wasn’t afraid of upsetting this particular one.

Sherlock had managed to free one of his legs from the stirrups and dealt the young man hanging on the bridle a thorough kick to the solar plexus. Winded, he staggered backwards, momentarily loosening his grip on the tack. The other assailant received Sherlock’s right elbow against the side of his head, which caused his arms to partly slide from Sherlock’s waist. Again Sherlock pulled up the horse, and the three men fell back. The youngest dove for the shovel again while at the same time John reached for his gun. This was getting a bit too dangerous. He had no intention of shooting either of the men, yet a little intimidation seemed like a good option despite the danger of the illegal handgun being recognised, which wouldn’t sit well with any police officer, judge and jury. Not every official shut both eyes and looked the other way like Lestrade and some of his team when it came to this particular possession of John’s.

There was no time for action, however. Sherlock pulled his steed round in a narrow pirouette and then urged her on. Fenja, obviously more than fed up with the three men’s antics, made a mighty leap that propelled her out of their circle, with the older of the two assistants almost colliding with her broad chest. With an angry snort she sprinted down the uneven path at a mad gallop with Sherlock clinging to her as best he could. John rolled his eyes as he hastily slid back into the dip to mount his own horse. At least there was no danger anymore of Sherlock receiving a shovel in his face.

From what John could hear as he scrambled on top of Tjálga, the three men were shouting at each other.

“I don’t care,” the leader was fuming. “Get on your quads and catch him. We can’t risk him blabbing about all this before we’re far away. I think I’ve seen his face before in connection with the police. He was featured in the press, too, a detective or consultant or something. I thought I knew him. This was no coincidence. Move it! Don’t let him escape!”

There was a rush of footsteps and then the roar of engines as the two assistants set out after Sherlock. John could see him from his elevated vantage point. He seemed to have gotten Fenja under control again and was cantering almost lazily along the path. John wondered whether he was counting on people to follow him, to lead them away from the excavation site and to split up the group. John wasn’t sure who’d have the advantage on the uneven ground: the horseman or the quad riders. In any case Sherlock looked like he didn’t need help immediately. John was rather convinced that he was going to lead the two men on a merry chase through the heather, and decided to leave him to it. After all, there was still a third, and potentially more dangerous, person to deal with.

The leader had stayed behind and was hurriedly gathering together the digging utensils, most of which he simply stacked between two of the many small refuse heaps. The metal detector went back into its sleeve, and what artefacts they had excavated were stored in a messenger bag. The man was so occupied that he didn’t notice John and Tjálga slowly descending the side of the barrow. After packing, the grave-robber busied himself with the tarpaulin, which seemed heavy and difficult to shift. He puffed and cursed under his breath.

“Need a hand with that?” asked John casually, one hand gripping his gun in the pocket of his jacket while holding the reins with the other. The man froze, then with deliberate slowness straightened and turned. 

“I should have anticipated that he wasn’t alone. No one is this bloody cocky and annoying without backup.”

“Well, you don’t know my friend,” said John with a faint smile, still speaking lightly yet fixing the man with a determined gaze. “But yes, you should have given thought to other folks being around. I suggest you step away from the tarpaulin.”

The man drew himself up. “Or what?”

John raised his eyebrows. “Oh please, we don’t want to go there. You can’t seriously believe you’re going to get out of this, not with all the evidence stacked against you. Two witnesses, this site, and your two companions who’re local and don’t look like they’d last long in an investigation before caving in and spilling the beans. But then you never intended to really share with them, did you? What was the plan? Frame them for something and have them convicted, while you grab the most valuable finds and scarper?”

“Well, well,” came the mocking reply, “and I thought the other’ the smart one. But if you’re so clever, and if that was indeed my plan, you’ll surely realise that you’re one big obstacle to its successful execution.”

“A position I’m filling rather happily,” quipped John. He urged Tjálga closer by a few paces, but then several things happened at once. From the direction Sherlock and the two quad drivers had disappeared a mighty crash sounded, followed by the high-pitched whinny of a horse and another crash. Reflexively, his heart gripped by worry, John turned in the direction, only to become almost unsaddled when Tjálga reared with a cry of pain. Clinging onto saddle and mane desperately so as not to fall, his feet having slipped from the stirrups, John tried to regain control of his upset horse which was rearing and bucking angrily.

The robber used the confusion to hastily drop the metal detector he had dealt the mare’s head a heavy blow with, sling the bag over his shoulder and run to his quad. By the time John had managed to slide from the saddle which seemed a better option than trying to stay up, and had gathered the mare’s head to himself to calm her, the man had started the engine and was taking off at great speed into the opposite direction the others had vanished. John dug for his gun, but to his shock it wasn’t there. He must have pulled it out of his pocket with his hand when he had tried to hold on to the horse with whatever appendage was available. He cursed loudly, causing the trembling Tjálga to flinch beside him.

“Sorry, lass,” he soothed, stroking her head. There was no visible injury since thankfully the detector had been wrapped in its sleeve. Still, John thought, there might be some soreness. And what to do now? Go after the man, hoping that his horse would obey and not simply throw its rider after how it had been treated? Or check on Sherlock? Oh God, Sherlock. He was one against two. No, John corrected himself as he mounted again. Against one. Sherlock was heading in his overall direction, riding at full gallop with the quad in close pursuit. The detective was looking unharmed and extremely pleased with himself.

John adjusted his helmet. _Well then_ , he thought with a grim smile, _you’re not getting to have all the fun_. Bending down and clapping Tjálga’s neck, “Come on, lassie, we’re going to catch the wanker who hurt you.”

He doubted the mare had understood him, but he took her snort as approval. She moved willingly as he guided her onto the path, and eagerly fell into tölt, then trot, and then canter as he urged her on. The leader of the trio, to John’s surprise, hadn’t accomplished as much of a headstart as he had feared, having obvious difficulty handling his vehicle in the rough terrain. John grinned predatorily as he leaned forward in the saddle and urged Tjálga into gallop, all thoughts about the danger the uneven ground might pose for horse and rider blown from his mind as adrenaline rushed in. Now this was what horsemanship was all about. He let out a small, happy whoop as his horse stretched under him and neighed, and increased speed on her own accord to leap over a rabbit hole. _Yes, baby_ , John thought as excitement coursed through him like a drug, _this is the life_.

The part of his mind not revelling in the rush of the chase dimly registered someone calling his name. Sherlock voice, growing steadily fainter. John shut him out. He’d already had his bit of hunting, or being hunted. At least he’d been allowed to gallop his horse like a madman over the heath and enjoy the thrill. Now it was John’s turn. He felt entitled to a bit of action after all the waiting and worrying, not just of today but the entire week ever since Sherlock had returned from Switzerland, tense and unhappy. John felt elated as he raced along the track, trusting in Tjálga surefootedness to carry him safely over stick and stone. The mare seemed to instinctively know where to place her hooves so as not to stumble or fall, and only occasionally John felt a jolt when she slipped slightly or stepped into a hidden dip or hole. Moreover she seemed to be enjoying the chase, too, not needing any further encouragement but racing on her own accord. John had almost forgotten about his prey, despite making constantly good on the quad and its desperate driver. For now, it was just the horse and he, and speed and the rush of wind in his ears and in his face, and the heavy breathing of the steed under him. 

The track had narrowed constantly as they’d been chasing along it, dwindling to a mere rabbit path much like the one John had followed to creep up on the grave-robbers. Thick bushes of heather and gorse grew to both sides and sometimes across it, severely hindering the quad’s progress. There were exposed roots and dips and hollows, and tussocks of grass, predestined for upsetting wheels or hooves. But for the time being, either party had avoided a tumble. John and Tjálga were much more mobile, winding their way through the brush and gaining on the quad. After breaking free of a clump of dense gorse-bushes, John saw that they were almost level. A shallow valley lay before them, the sides grown with bracken and heather and slender birches. But the path ahead looked clear for once.

The driver had long noticed his pursuer and seemed to be considering several options to get rid of him. He tried the first the moment John urged Tjálga through the bristly gorse-barrier. Turning sharply to the right, the grave-robber attempted to mount the slope with his quad. Halfway up, he realised that the action was doomed to failure. John watched as he was forced to abort the ascent and head down again in a wide berth. John couldn’t hide a grim smirk, briefly reminded of some of those notorious videos on _You’ve Been Framed_ , showing quad drivers trying to climb steep slopes, and their machines keeling over and falling on top of them. Sadly, this handler managed to stabilise his machine.

By the time John had reached him, he was back on the level ground of the valley’s floor and had accelerated again. John was close enough to hear his heavy breathing and see the ruthless, determined light in his eyes. Reining Tjálga in a little to curb her enthusiasm, John steered her to the left of the vehicle to try and come next to the driver and to ... well, to do what, exactly? John hadn’t really though that far. In any decent action movie, the hero would now jump from his horse onto the quad and pluck the nasty villain from it with one fell swoop. For an adrenaline-driven, complete mindless instant this option actually seemed not only viable but the absolute best thing to do. But the very next second the decision whether to do something heroic but utterly stupid was taken out of John’s hands when the quad driver decided to fill the vacancy for acting like a total moron instead.

John saw his hand twitch as he pulled the handlebars round and caused the quad to swerve sharply to the left, effectively pulling across Tjálga’s and his path. The mare reacted more quickly than John by throwing up her head and taking a mighty jump to the left to avoid hitting the vehicle. Unfortunately, upon landing she failed her footing with her right front leg which apparently hit a hole in the ground. The jump had already caused John to loose one of his stirrups, the jolt resulting from the misstep cost him the other. Tjálga dipped her head in order to balance out her stumble, which ripped the reins from John’s hands. He managed to grip a bit of mane, but it was too little to keep him seated. The jolt catapulted him over the mare’s head. _Oh fuck, that’s gonna hurt_ , he thought, and then his left shoulder and hip hit the ground with a to his ears obscene sounding crash. The momentum caused him to roll over twice until he landed heavily in a patch of wet bracken.

 

**- <o>-**

 

He didn’t black out, surprisingly. That actually astonished him as he lay, staring up at the overcast sky, his body numb, no pain yet. _Strange that_ , he thought. He didn’t seem to be fully aware of his surroundings, however. Only this could possibly explain that he didn’t even flinch when something large and dark and smelling of horse flew over him and landed heavily quite close to his face. He could feel the pounding of hooves through the ground, going directly into his head. But it quickly grew softer. There was another sound, too, which might have been footsteps. The nasty roar of the quad had ceased. John closed his eyes. The sky was too bright. He decided to concentrate on breathing instead as he felt the shock recede and pain creep in, spreading from his left shoulder into his neck and head, and down into his ribs and hip. Fuck, it had been his scarred shoulder. He hissed as he tried to move his left arm. It didn’t feel broken, yet just moving his fingers sent a hot tendril of pain down his shoulder. Not good.

Slowly and carefully, he started moving his other limbs, making a mental inventory of what might be damaged and how badly. Nothing broken, hip and shoulder severely bruised, though, ribs got a bit of a beating, too. Headache from hitting the ground while rolling over, but luckily the helmet had taken the worst brunt of the impact. Otherwise, John reckoned he’d be severely concussed or worse now. Unconscious, too, not just lying prone and in a haze of pain.

He tried rolling onto his right side to see what had happened to the quad and its rider, but as soon as he moved as much as his head, another spike of pain shot through his shoulder and he decided that the fucking grave-robber could go fuck himself and that he was going to stay put, at least for a bit, at least until he could breathe properly again and his head stopped swimming.

When he opened his eyes again after having drawn a few calming breaths, through the tendrils of bracken he could descry something dark next to something glinting metallically. The quad. Gosh, his brain had really been knocked about, hadn’t it? Yes, there was the quad, lying on its side, apparently. So it had keeled over. Well, served the fucker right. But where was he? Lying buried under it, injured like John? Drawing a deep breath to fortify himself against the pain, John raised his head slightly out of the fern. He could see the quad fully now, but no trace of the driver. Apparently he had come off lightly and run away. _Yeah, and thanks for checking whether I was still alive_ , thought John angrily, before he hissed again as another wave of pain welled through his shoulder and he decided that lying back down might be not the worst idea, despite the ground being wet and cold.

As he lay, he thought he could head dull thumping again. Perhaps Tjálga was coming back. John hoped she hadn’t been hurt in the action. Stupid chase, stupid driver. And, well, if he was completely honest with himself, John’s part in the entire venture hadn’t been that of a genius, either. Trying to pursue and catch a criminal on horseback. Yeah, right. He wasn’t Indiana Jones, who’d taken down a tank on horseback. In fact, now that he lay, his body aching, he felt more like Mr. Bean.

The thumping grew louder. Hoofbeat? No, too light, not enough feet. And there was something else, a voice, calling his name. _Oh, hey, Sherlock_ , thought John groggily, _nice of you to show up and join the party_. Reviewing these thoughts an instant later, he decided he’d hit his head harder than he liked.

“John, John, are you all right, John?” Sherlock’s voice sounded higher than usual as it was tinged with unmistakable worry. “John, answer me.”

John opened his eyes again with a groan and squinted at the Sherlock-shaped shadow falling on him. “Yeah, I’m okay,” he managed, but even to his own ears he didn’t sound convincing.

“Fell off my horse,” he muttered. “Nothing broken, though. Just my shoulder, it hurts like bleeding hell. Hit my head a little, too.”

There was a rush and a wave of horse-smell mixed with damp wool and a faint whiff of Sherlock’s aftershave, and then Sherlock’s hands were on his face, working on the straps of the riding helmet. They were surprisingly careful and gentle. They were also trembling slightly. John’s gaze focused on Sherlock’s face hovering over his. He’d gotten rid of his own helmet, his hair a riot of wild curls as if he’d raked his hands through them, and his expression .... Oh shit, his expression was ... intense. It reminded John of the Pool. Sherlock’s lips were open, he was panting slightly. His face was pale under the flush from the chase, and his eyes were large and dark and shining, all emotion displayed openly for once, raw and unguarded. John realised his friend was scared shitless.

“Hey, Sherlock,” he soothed, “I’m okay, really. Just got knocked about a bit.” He slowly raised his right hand to run over Sherlock’s left which was still cradling his face like a precious, fragile thing.

Sherlock swallowed hard, ducking his face for a moment as if to hide his expression from John. Having regained his composure, he raised his eyes to John’s face again. “I saw you chase after the leader, but then you got swallowed up by the bushes and I couldn’t see you anymore,” he explained, words rushing from his mouth in a quick cascade, like usual when he was excited – or worried.

“Moreover I had to shake my own pursuer first, who luckily decided I wasn’t worth the effort after I’d left the track and ridden into muddy terrain. He left off and turned round to collect his brother. Doubtlessly they’re on their way home now. I started looking for you but only knew the general direction you’d been headed. And then I heard the crash and the cry of your horse. Fenja turned frisky of a sudden and almost threw me. Suddenly next to a group of trees we saw Tjálga, her reins caught in the branches. She was trembling all over. I tried to calm her and freed the reins, then I retraced her steps until I came upon this valley. And then I saw the crashed quad, and next to it a body, lying unmovingly. At first I thought it was the driver, as he was wearing a dark jacket, too. But then I recognised your riding helmet.”

He stared at John intensely, his expression drawn. “For a moment while I saw you lying there with your eyes closed, not moving and not reacting to my calls I ...,” he swallowed again, “I thought you’d broken your neck,” he finished, his voice hoarse. “I thought I’d lost you.”

John let out a long breath, then raised his hand to run it softly down Sherlock’s cheek. “Hey, hey, I’m still here. And my neck is fine. Well, at least it’s not snapped in two. Come, help me up. Gently, though. I’m not sure my shoulder’s still attached to my body.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The illustration for this chapter is "[John, John, are you all right, John?](http://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/101337315338/john-john-are-you-all-right)":


	16. Chapter 16

Sherlock swallowed again, then got a grip. Drawing a deep breath, he shifted until he was kneeling at John’s left side. “Come, lean against me.”

John did so, and carefully, Sherlock supported him so that he could move into a sitting position. It hurt, but less than he had feared. After a brief moment of dizziness during which he was truly grateful for Sherlock’s steadfast support at his side, he gave a nod. Sherlock reached up to lift the helmet off his head. “Perhaps I should leave it on,” muttered John. “In case I stumble and fall again.”

“You’re not going to stumble and fall. I’ll be there. But if you insist, leave it on. Do you think you can stand?”

“Yeah, guess so. My legs are all right. Got a bit of a hip, though,” he added with a crooked smirk. Sherlock gazed at him worriedly. John gently dug his elbow into his side. “Hey, that was meant to be a joke to lighten the mood. Really, Sherlock, don’t worry so much. It’s unlikely I’m concussed, and if so, it’s only very mild. My shoulder will bruise nicely and hurt like buggery for a week or two, same for my ribs. But that’s all. I’ll live.”

“How would you know?” asked Sherlock as together, they stood, John still leaning on him.

“What do you mean, how would I know? I’m a bloody doctor, that’s how.”

“I meant how would you know how buggery hurt,” quipped Sherlock, and now he was grinning and John staring, until he, too dissolved into giggles. “You twat,” he gasped when his ribs complained about the activity.

“I thought your intend was to ‘lighten the mood with humour’, or something like it.”

“Humour, yes. I’m not sure I’m in a state to deal with your attempts at innuendo, though.”

“Well, perhaps we should pass by the Naylands on our way back. They look like they could provide you with herbal soothers for your hip.”

John giggled again. “Stop it.” Straightening his back and rolling his shoulder experimentally, he gestured to Sherlock to step back, which he did reluctantly. “It’s fine. I can manage.”

Surveying the crash site, he noticed the two horses standing nearby, their reins tied to a small birch. The quad looked rather done in. The chassis and particularly one of the axels was bent badly out of shape. Sherlock walked over and studied the remains, then dug into the pockets of his coat to retrieve some small evidence bags. With the plastic covering his hands, he carefully collected what looked like fibres into one. He swiped one of the metal rods with the other, before closing the bags and returning them to his pockets.

“What a mess,” muttered John, anger at his own stupidity nagging at him. “Sorry I let him escape, Sherlock. I almost had him, but then he cut across me and Tjálga. She reared and jumped out of reflex. But she landed unevenly and stumbled and that threw me off her back. I flew quite a bit, judging from where the machine crashed and where I ended up after my tumble. The driver must have run away. Sorry. Not one of my brightest ideas, all this.”

Sherlock shook his head, his expression grim, though. “It doesn’t matter. We could hardly have dragged him all the way back to the bunker. The two others escaped as well. But I managed to get some excellent photos and videos of their digging enterprise, and also recorded the audio of my confrontation with them. The two brothers are local. I’m sure that a little asking around will lead us to them, if the Millers, Katie or the Naylands don’t recognise them in the first place. And once we’ve got them, they’ll spill the beans quickly enough about their boss, believe me. Neither of the two has the makings of a criminal. They got involved in this in the hope of some quick money. They didn’t even chase me with much vigour, rather enjoyed the ride and tried to get away from the site. Likely their true intention was to scarper. The leader is the real brains behind this venture, and he, too, shouldn’t be to difficult to find. But actually, I don’t consider this to be our task. We’ll hand the case over to the local police right away, after informing the Millers about the discovery and putting them in contact with the right people to have it documented and excavated properly. Do you think you can ride?”

John gazed at the dishevelled looking Tjálga. “Yeah, I think so. Better than walking, anyway. As long as we don’t ride faster than a walk.”

“We won’t. We’ll only ride back to the bunker. The children should be there by now, hopefully with a car.”

“Oh fuck, I completely forgot about them,” said John as he stroked his mare’s head. “Hey, lass, you all right? Thanks for not stepping on me when I was lying there.”

Sherlock gave him a questioning glance. “She jumped over me when I was on the ground,” clarified John.

Sherlock clapped her neck. “Good girl.”

John gave the mare a critical once-over. Again Sherlock frowned. “Anything the matter?”

“Just making sure she didn’t injure herself,” said John, running his hand down her foreleg.

“She walked all right when I found her,” said Sherlock. “I checked her, too. She doesn’t favour a leg when she stands, nor are there signs of lameness when she walks. Still, we won’t be riding far.”

John nodded, untying the reins. “Thankfully,” he muttered.

Mounting proved painful and difficult, but with Sherlock giving him a hand up, John managed. Cradling his left arm to his abdomen, he held the reins only lightly with his right, hoping that there wasn’t going to be much steering required on the way back. Sherlock mounted as well. “Do you want me to take your reins?”

“No thanks, we should be fine,” said John, bracing himself for painful jolts as the horse set in motion. The first few steps were indeed aggravating, but eventually the gentle sway of Tjálga’s back actually eased the throbbing in his shoulder. His hip continued to complain, but the ache was possible to ignore. Some of the pain must have shown in his face, however, because Sherlock who was riding next to him as long as the width of the path allowed was eyeing him with concern written all over his features. It touched John that he obviously cared and worried so much – a man who’d adopted the label ‘high functioning sociopath’ for his own convenience and emotional protection.

“Sherlock, it’s not going to kill me,” John tried to soothe him. “I was shot and nearly bled out in Afghanistan, and you suffered far worse than this while you were away. So stop worrying. Tell you the truth, it’s causing _me_ to worry, seeing you this upset. Tell me about the case, rather. Even though you explained how you propose we catch at least part of the gang, you seem pretty unconcerned that the big fish got away so easily.”

“Oh, not easily,” Sherlock assured him with a dark smile. “He was injured in the crash and was dragging one foot up the slope. There were clear marks in the vegetation. He did the clever thing and hid somewhere in the bracken when he saw or heard me approach. I was calling out for you so he’d have had ample warning. Likely he’s on the move again now. It’s going to be dark in less than an hour and he’s going to have a bit of a walk ahead to reach any kind of settlement, and an even longer one to get medical treatment. There were fibres from his trousers on the broken cassis of the quad, and some blood as well. Should be easy to get a DNA print from the samples I took. It looks like his right leg got caught under the machine and he wrenched it free to get away while you were supposedly out of commission.”

“Serves him right, the fucking arsehole,” fumed John, anger bubbling up again at the reminder of his failed attempt at capturing the criminal. “He should have foreseen what would happen. Before he fled, he hit Tjálga with the metal detector, right in the face. I couldn’t detect any injuries, but what kind of fucker treats an animal like hat?”

Sherlock shrugged. “A desperate one.”

“I feel like an idiot,” admitted John. “I shouldn’t have given him the talk but simply threatened him with the gun to shut him up. Shit, this reminds me. We have to stop at the barrow. When Tjálga was attacked she reared and I think I lost the gun. I had it in my hand and halfway out of my pocket, but then I was more concerned with staying in the saddle and just scrabbled at anything within reach to hold on to her. I must have dropped it accidentally." 

“We’ll look for it,” promised Sherlock. “Better not leave it lying around lest the children find it. We should cover the excavation site properly, too. There is bound to be more rain tonight.”

John glanced up at the darkening clouds. Only to the south-west, above a line of distant trees and the huge cargo cranes of Felixstowe container port, the silhouettes of which looked like strange, long-legged beasts, he could see a line of light where the sun was about to dive into the sea. Sherlock was right, it was going to be dark soon. Suddenly, riding only as far as the bunker and getting a lift home in a warm car seemed extraordinarily appealing. As did simply sleeping in the hay in the bunker, with Sherlock snuggled up to him his keep his back and shoulder warm.

Glancing over at the man, Sherlock looked deep in thought, effectively letting his horse choose the way. Luckily, Fenja seemed to remember a homeward bound course. Tjálga was following, her head drooping. Both horses looked as weary as John felt. But Sherlock showed no signs of exhaustion. His eyes were unfocused, however, and a frown was creasing the bridge of his nose. He was thinking.

“Oh.” Suddenly, he jerked up his head and straightened in the saddle, his eyes blazing with inspiration. Fenja’s ears flicked back to him in alarm. Sherlock relaxed again, stroking her neck. She settled down again and resumed picking her way over the uneven ground.

“Recalled something important about the case?” asked John, reining in Tjálga to fall in step behind Sherlock’s horse since the path was getting too narrow for the two of them to ride abreast.

Sherlock turned his head and smiled at John, and it was his smug, pleased-with-himself smile. “Oh yes. Actually, your reminder about having to look for the gun led me onto it.”

“What is it?”

“You saw the excavation.”

“Yeah. Looked pretty professional, considering that it was all illegal and conducted with minimal equipment.”

Sherlock nodded. “Indeed it did. Despite their obvious desire to quickly and effectively clear away and bag whatever treasure they could find, they did proceed in a manner that was both cautious and professional enough so as not to damage potential artefacts.”

“Right, yes, okay. But how does that help us?”

“Well,” went on Sherlock, obviously enjoying himself, “it indicates that the excavation was conducted over the course of several days, or rather weeks, considering that apparently only the three of them were digging, likely not even all of them at the same time as today. They had jobs and uni to attend. The weather this autumn has been exceptionally wet and windy. Not ideal for working in such a delicate environment. Hence the precaution with the tarpaulin. Judging from the earth they had cleared away already, I’d reckon they started in late summer but then experienced delays – weather, busy times at the farm, the beginning of the new term at uni –, all the time having to fear that their little enterprise might be discovered.”

John nodded thoughtfully, then grimaced as pain shot up his neck from his shoulder. “It actually strikes me as odd that nobody did come across it, particularly if they’ve indeed been round since summer.”

“What if they were?” asked Sherlock gleefully. “Discovered, I mean. Or at least noticed.”

John frowned. “Who’d see something like this and not tell the police, or at least the owners of the land? Oh God, you don’t think the Millers or their friends are in on the plan, do you? They seemed decent folks, all of them.”

“No, they wouldn’t be. I think we can rightly assume that they are, in fact, decent and law-abiding. But as for the discoverers not speaking up, what if they were being threatened?”

John understood. “Shit. You think the kids saw them, came across them while riding here, and the men knew where they’re from and put pressure on them to shut them up?”

“Yes. And to prove that they’re serious, they struck at something the children loved.”

“You think they poisoned the two horses, then, and maybe threatened to kill more?”

“It’s too early to be sure, but there is a possibility that they are responsible for at least one killing. Remember, the two assistants are from round here and grew up on a farm. They’d potentially know what kind of vegetation would prove fatal to a horse, and they should have the knowledge to work out the right dosage. I am not convinced they killed both, though, as the two incidents are so far apart time-wise.”

“Maybe they poisoned Rædwald to, as you said, show the kids that they were indeed serious, and then killed the mare when they wanted to take up the excavation again, to ensure further silence. although come to think of it, wouldn't that nullify the arrangement with the children? If they threatened to kill the horses to endure their silence, but then the animals are murdered indeed ... I mean, why would the kids stick to the deal still? Another thing I don’t understand is why the children brought the foal to a place not far from the barrow where there’s a considerable likelihood that it might be found. It could happen so easily. Bad weather, or just a brief shower like today, the men don’t want to return home but seek a sheltered spot in the vicinity, and they end up in the very bunker the kids keep the foal. Not very clever, is it, when there must be plenty of places where they could have hid it.”

He couldn’t see Sherlock’s expression, but from the sound of his voice he was smiling dangerously. “Oh, I think the children are very clever. I think they chose the spot deliberately. The foal isn’t exactly well hidden. Look at how quickly we found it, and we made quite a detour through the forest. Had the Millers started a thorough search of their own, maybe enlisting the help of their friends or the police, they’d also found the foal within a day or two. And this, I think, is what the children were counting on. That way, they wouldn’t have been telling anybody about the proceedings at the barrow, but they were ... indicating the way, so to say, and likely hoping that the search party would catch our dear grave-robbers in the act.”

John whistled softly. “Gosh, that’s quite a bit of scheming. How old are they? Twelve?”

“Never underestimate children, John. They see and hear far more than adults who most of the time only use half their brains and even fewer of their senses. And they can come up with ingenious plans, just like adults.”

“Speaking from experience?”

“Well, you know me.”

John laughed softly. “Yes, I do.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

To John’s great relief, they found his Sig lying on top of a patch of bracken near the hole dug into the barrow. Sherlock spotted it from horseback and dismounted to retrieve it, handing it to John who was holding Fenja’s reins. Quickly, Sherlock dragged the tarpaulin over the excavation site again, after gathering together what tools the diggers had left behind, which also vanished under the covering. He didn’t bother with putting the loose vegetation back, though, just weighed down the tarpaulin with some branches. As he was returning to his horse, he cast a doubtful glance at the sky. 

“It’s going to rain again soon,” he stated, giving John a worried look as he was struggling with the collar of his jacket that refused to stay up. Cold had begun to creep down John’s neck to further aggravate his shoulder. The wind had freshened up and seemed to be burrowing into every opening of John’s garments to chill him with its searching fingers. Sherlock bit his lip, then took off his scarf.

“Here.”

John gave him a surprised look which almost immediately turned into a grateful smile. For an instant he had felt compelled to refuse out of some twisted sense of … whatever. But in truth he was touched by Sherlock’s thoughtfulness. When had this caring side of Sherlock’s emerged? But then, likely it had always been there, but had lain dormant and suppressed for years, decades, even.

“Thanks,” he said earnestly.

Sherlock nodded and swung himself into the saddle again, buttoning up the lapel of his coat. John handed back the reins, then tied the scarf round his neck. It was still warm and smelled of Sherlock. John ducked his chin into the soft fabric and drew a deep breath.

 

**- <o>-**

 

It had started to drizzle by the time the bunker came into view. The sun had gone down and mists were gathering in the hollows of the land. Trees stood silhouetted darkly against the dusky sky, the clumps of gorse creating strange, monstrous shapes in the gloom. The bunker, however, was illuminated from within, and a rather prehistoric looking orange Fiat Uno was parked in front of it. Voices sounded from inside the building.

This time, the two mares seemed too tired to greet the foal as it whinnied. John felt rather guilty for having to leave them outside in what was gearing up for another shower. But the bunker appeared crowded enough as it was. The door had been heaved almost to, only allowing for a sliver of lamplight to spill through the opening.

Sherlock dismounted in front of the building, then held John’s horse so he could do likewise which proved a slow, painful venture. After tying the horses’ reins to the branches of a bush, Sherlock took off his helmet, actually fluffed up his hair, then nodded to John to position himself at the side of the door. After ridding himself of his own helmet, John did so. Another nod, and Sherlock heaved open the door and stepped over the threshold.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” Sherlock greeted the three persons that were staring at him in utter surprise. Following behind him, John saw three girls of varying ages. One he recognised from the photographs he’d seen in the Millers’ stable and Katie’s kitchen. Emma was older now and wore her hair differently, shorter, but she still had the same large eyes and freckled nose. Despite approaching puberty, she seemed to prefer colourful, still rather childlike, practical clothes and Wellingtons to what John had seen girls even younger than her wear in London.

The other girl of similar age had to be Anne, John reasoned. She was of partly Asian descent, tall for her age, bundled up in a huge woollen jumper, her hair gathered in a ponytail. She was had been holding a bale of hay with fingers the nails of which were brightly painted with what looked like felt-tip pens. At Sherlock’s dramatic entrance, she dropped the bale in surprise. 

The third girl was older than the two friends. John estimated her to be in her late teens. He concluded that she must be the driver. She was also Asian, and judging from the similarity of their features, she appeared to be related to Anne. She was wearing riding clothes, only seemed to have exchanged the boots for Adidas sneakers, which, however, had been worn round a farm because they were caked with mud and manure. A pink iPod was peeking from the breast-pocket of her padded vest, and she wore a pair of colourful headphones round her neck.

Stepping fully into the anteroom of the hideout, Sherlock flipped down the collar of his coat and unbuttoned the garment. “Since it’s started to rain again and we need to have a little chat, why don’t you make enough room in here so we can move our horses inside and rub them down. Also, my friend is injured and in pain and would appreciate a place to sit down in relative warmth.”

He gave each of the girls a pointed look until eventually, Emma sighed and shoved the hay bale out of the way. “I told you he’d find us,” she said to Anne, looking tired and dejected, her formerly defiant expression gone.

“You did not really expect this to be a long-term solution to your problem, did you?” returned Sherlock, stepping aside to let John fully enter the building with the two Icelanders in tow.

“Is he the detective from London?” asked the eldest girl.

“Yeah,” said Anne. “The one Emma’s mum fetched from London yesterday. Sherlock something.”

“Holmes. And this is my partner, Dr. John Watson.” John nodded at them. Despite the inside of the building being fairly warm, he felt a shiver run through him from the draught near the door. He felt slightly queasy and realised that he must be both dehydrated and hypoglycaemic.

“How did you find us?” asked Emma.

“By looking,” replied Sherlock. “I am full willing to enlighten you concerning my process of reasoning and the clues that led to the discovery, but there are other things we need to discuss first. Has either of you a phone with working mobile reception?”

“Vodaphone works sometimes,” said Anne, digging a mobile out of her trouser pocket. “depends on the weather. What do you need it for?”

“Phone the Millers, your parents and Emma’s mother. Tell them where we are, and that we found the foal. Tell them to come immediately and to bring a horse trailer large enough for three and a thermos of tea.”

“Our folks’ll be at the bonfire now,” said the eldest girl. “Don’t know whether ...”

“Phone them,” Sherlock interrupted her sternly. “And yes, all of you will likely get into some trouble for this, but I expect you’ll come off lightly once your parents understand your motives, which were honourable. Moreover I must congratulate you on the planning and execution of this venture. But before we discuss details, let’s look after our horses and get more comfortable.”

The girls exchanged glances with each other, until at length Emma snatched the phone from Anne’s hand and dialled. Sherlock went to close the door, then began to rummage through Tjálga’s saddlebags while Anne and the other girl busied themselves with taking off the Icelanders bridles and putting on their halters, before unsaddling them and rubbing them down with straw.

“Here,” said Sherlock, handing John the tote bag Susan had stored their provisions in. “Sit down and eat something.”

John gazed at him surprisedly. “What’s come over you today? First the scarf, and now this?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, resolutely taking John by his unhurt shoulder and steering him over to the bales where he sat him down with gentle force. “You’re hungry, tired and in considerable pain, far more than you let show. So sit down and eat. You can have my coat if you’re cold.”

John looked up at him. As much as being coddled like this and being treated like an invalid usually riled him, having it come from Sherlock was strangely sweet and touching, particularly because said Sherlock was blushing faintly with an endearing mixture of shy- and bossiness. Reaching up, John caught his hand and stroked it before giving it a squeeze.

“Thank you”, he said gravely. “I appreciate it.”

Sherlock gave him a lopsided smile and started to peel off his coat, which he draped over John’s shoulders. “No, actually you’re annoyed by it, but have decided to humour me because you think my behaviour is alarmingly out of character and you’ve yet to decide what to make of it. Now eat.”

“Bossy git. And for the record, I don’t think it’s out of character. It’s just a trait you don’t show very often. Lending me your beloved coat, even … Never thought I’d see the day.”

“For the record, you’ve worn my coat before on two occasions. So there is no need to mark today in the calendar or make a blog post about it. You can fetch the milk for the next three months, if you feel the need to repay me.”

“I already fetch the milk, Sherlock,” John reminded him with a grin, “almost all the time. Apart from that one notable occasion, of course.”

Sherlock grinned as well. “I’ll think of something else, then.” He hesitated for the briefest of moments, then reached out and tenderly ran a hand along John’s cheek, before bending down and ghosting a kiss over his forehead. Straightening up again, he turned and walked briskly over to Anne and the older girl who were exchanging amused glances. Emma had climbed over the barricade and was talking on the phone in the other room.

“Are you two going out?” asked Anne.

“Not in this weather, obviously,” replied Sherlock, causing Anne to frown in irritation, the other girl to giggle, and John to bite into a cereal bar to suppress a grin.

Sherlock scowled at them. “What?” he demanded.

“She meant if you’re together,” the driver clarified. “You know, as in being in love, a couple.”

Sherlock drew himself up in preparation for a verbal onslaught, but then he cast a quick glance over his shoulder at John. He flashed him a brief smile, then turned again and said matter-of-factly, “Yes, we are. Problem?”

“No. You’re cute together.”

John couldn’t see Sherlock’s expression but he was sure raised eyebrows were involved. “I’d prefer some other adjective, but thank you.”

“What happened to him?” asked Anne while untangling Fenja’s mane, indicating John with a nod of her head.

“He was thrown by Tjálga while pursuing a special friend of yours.”

Anne’s eyes widened in alarm. “What _friend_?” she asked.

“We’ll wait for Emma to return, and then we’re going to have a little chat.” Sherlock walked to the barricade. “Emma, I’d like to talk to your mother, too.”

Emma handed him the phone with a dark, tense expression, before busying herself with shifting the planks so that the Icelanders could be moved into the backroom. Apparently the talk with her mum hadn’t gone too well.

Sherlock withdrew into John’s corner. “Hello Katie,” he said, “no, no, the children are all right. Did Emma tell you about the foal? Good. Don’t be too harsh in your anger, she was trying to protect it. From whom? I think we found some clues concerning that, and we’ll need the police here to look into the matter. No, no, not because of what the children did. They didn’t even damage anything or anybody. The foal is perfectly healthy, and so are they. No, it looks like they accidentally discovered a trio of grave-robbers on the Millers’ land and these men may have been putting pressure on the children to not reveal their activities. I don’t know the exact circumstances yet but I hope that the three ladies here are going to tell me in a short while. Yes, three. There’s Emma, Anne, and a third who could be Anne’s sister.”

The oldest girl nodded at that. “Kim?” Sherlock asked her after briefly listening to Katie. The girl nodded again.

“Yes, Kim. Well, they needed a driver, obviously. Now, inform the Millers and Anne’s and Kim’s parents, and also the police. All need to come here now. We need transportation for the foal and the two Icelanders John and I rode here. They’re tired and it’s raining, and we’ll be too busy to ride them back. Also, do you know anybody in the vicinity who uses quads on their farm? Two of the criminals we ran into today appeared to be local and were driving them. Description? No problem.”

Sherlock launched into a thorough description of the two assistants, which Katie interrupted at some point. “Matt and Toby Goodman from Hollesley?” repeated Sherlock. “Good. No other possible candidates? Excellent. Tell the police to send another car to their parents’ farm and check whether they’re home. Matt’s the elder, right? He crashed with his quad and injured his hip. The quad seemed to be working afterwards, but was damaged considerably and should show clear traces of the crash. They were involved in the illegal excavation of what looks like an ancient barrow. Yes, really. They’d been at it for some time. It’s a long story, and I believe the children can fill more than one chapter with their accounts. So hurry. Yes, it’s a low, bunker-like structure, about two miles off the road to Butley, eastwards of the Millers’s farm beyond their fishpond. When you head towards Butley on the main road, a path branches off to the left near the edge of the forest, running parallel to the treeline. It’s more or less the eastern border of the Millers’ land. Yes, that one. Can you find it in the dark? Good. Describe it to the police and tell them to take this seriously. We need two cars. One for the Goodman’s farm, one for coming here. Tell them to bring sufficient illumination. There was a third criminal who is still out and about, but in need of medical attention. What? Oh, yes, about the tea. Bring some, hot, milk, no sugar. And a first aid kit. No, not the children. I told you they’re fine. It’s John. He fell off his horse and could do with some painkillers, although if you asked him he’d claim he’s perfectly all right. But he isn’t. So hurry. Right. Bye.”

He ended the call. John had been watching him while wolfing down two of the cereal bars and an apple. He was feeling slightly better now, although his shoulder still hurt, as did his head, ribs and hip. The three girls had meanwhile finished stabling the Icelanders and were now eyeing Sherlock with both awe and concern and no small measure of suspicion.

“How do you know all this?” asked Emma. “About the men, and the digging?”

“We had the good fortune of meeting them today,” said Sherlock, handing the phone back to Anne. “Why don’t you three take a seat and tell me how you met them? They threatened you, didn’t they?”

The three, particularly Anne and Emma, exchanged uneasy glances.

“You won’t get into trouble for this,” fell in John, speaking quietly both in an attempt to ease them and not to aggravate the throbbing in his head. “We’ve enough evidence to convict all three men. Sherlock took photos and filmed them while they were excavating the barrow, and one of them attacked me, that’s why I fell off the horse. They won’t be able to harm you.”

“They said they’d hurt our horses,” exclaimed Emma violently. “They said they’d kill them if we told anybody. But we didn’t tell. We told nobody, ever, and they still hurt them. They killed them, Rædi and Flædi. That’s why we took Ælfi, to keep her safe.”

“I know,” said Sherlock, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. “And it was both an ingenious and dangerous thing to do. But you kept your part of the deal, and they didn’t. Are you sure they poisoned the two horses? Do you have proof? Seem them round the farm, perhaps?”

Emma shook her head, and Anne looked uncertain, too. “But who else could have done it?” she put in.

“We’ll find out once we’ve caught the trio,” promised Sherlock.

“Will the police want to talk to us?” asked Kim.

“Yes, will they?” fell in Emma as well, her eyes round with worry. “Because if we have to tell them and they don’t catch them, then—”

“Nobody is going to hurt the horses anymore,” soothed John. “Also, I don’t think you’ll have to fear that the police is going to punish you for ‘abducting’ the foal. You two are too young to face charges, anyway, and you didn’t actually steal it, nor hurt it. Your parents may want to hold you accountable for the worry you caused the Millers, but Susan and Peter don’t strike me as folks who’d hold a grudge, now that they’re going to find their foal healthy and undamaged. Perhaps they’ll even be pleased. After all, if the barrow turns out to be an important archaeological site indeed, they’re going to be recompensed well as the owners of the lands. And you three may have helped in taking down three criminals, one of which is apparently a bigger fish experienced in the illegal acquisition of ancient artefacts. So don’t worry. Perhaps you’ll have to hover more often, or live without telly or internet for a week or two.”

“Or your phones,” added Sherlock, which put a damper on the girls’ spirits which had lifted visibly at John’s speech.

“Yes, thanks for your input, Sherlock,” John told him with a dark glance. “That’d actually be a punishment for you. Wonder how you managed for several hours without reception.”

Sherlock scowled at him, then turned to the girls who’d by now had seated themselves on hay bales. “What I would like to know is how you happened upon our three criminals.”

“Anne and I saw them,” said Emma after exchanging another glance with her friend, likely for reassurance. “Back during the summer holidays when we were riding here. At first we didn’t know what they were doing. We thought they were allowed to be there. We watched them for a bit from afar, and then crept closer to get a better view. That’s when they saw us.”

“Did you know or recognise any of them?”

“I recognised the quads. I’d seen them around. Mum had been complaining about them because they ride in the forest where they’re not allowed, and also on the beaches down at Shinglestreet, and they’re protected and everything because of the plants and the birds that live there. They damage all the plants with their quads, and the animals, too. That’s why I grew suspicious, because Su and Pete, they wouldn’t have allowed them on their land. I didn’t know their names, though.”

“I did, however,” fell in Kim. “When some day Anne complained about quads in the forest, I told her about Toby Goodman and his mates. Toby’s two years older than I, twenty. A friend of mine went out with him for a bit until she realised that he’s an idiot who’s only interested in his machine and his stupid mates and their motorbikes. So she ditched him. Good riddance, too.”

“But you didn’t know the reason for your sister’s interest in quads, then?” enquired Sherlock.

“No, I only found out a few days ago. Those two, they really kept everything bottled up. But when Flædi was found dead, Anne confided in me.”

“Because they needed a driver,” stated Sherlock. “Obvious.”

“Because I’m her sister, okay?” Kim returned angrily. “Both were really troubled by what had happened. Thought it’d been their fault. She needed somebody to talk to, and preferably not one of our parents. But yeah, I guess they needed a car as well. And someone to get them a few things, too, like these bales and the water canisters. I work at the Suffolk Punch Trust, you see, to earn some cash for uni next year, so it was easy for me to organise the stuff.”

“Why didn’t you involve your parents?” asked John.

“Because adults complicate things,” burst in Emma. “they ask too many questions.” She glared at Sherlock. “We weren’t going to keep Ælfi here forever, just for a few days to figure out what to do. We just wanted to keep her safe.”

“Why here, so close to the barrow?” Sherlock wanted to know. “Were you hoping people would start looking for the foal and so perhaps find the grave-robbers as well?”

“No, not at first. This place seemed best because it wasn’t too far away,” explained Anne. “If Kim wasn’t around to drive, we could get her by horse or bike, or even on foot to look after Ælfi. There’s a path leading here from Emma’s house, away from the roads, along the fence of the old airfield. We were going to take turns after school. We were lucky that both Su and Peter and Katie were away yesterday so we could bring her here without being seen.”

“Edmund and Lucy, do they know?” asked John.

“We just told them that we were taking Ælfi away to look after her,” explained Emma. “We needed them to distract their parents, and so they insisted on wanting help prepare the bonfire over at Rendlesham to get them out of the house. And today they all went to the fire, leaving us a free hand here. Well, mostly free, anyway.”

Sherlock clapped his hands in appreciation. “Oh, clever, clever. You three are very smart indeed.”

“Not smart enough,” said Emma. “You found out.”

“Ah, but that’s my job. I’m good at solving riddles." 

“I don’t know what’s come over him today,” said John with a faint smile. “Normally, he won’t settle for anything less than ‘brilliant’ or ‘amazing’.”

“‘Extraordinary’ works, too,” quipped Sherlock. 

John rolled his eyes. “Now that the case is solved, how about you have a bite as well, Sherlock. I can hear your stomach rumble from where I sit.”

Sherlock waved a hand. “Transport, John. And the case isn’t solved. The criminals haven’t been apprehended yet, although if the local police force doesn’t consist of total morons they should manage to catch at least two of them presently. But there is more work to be done.”

“Not today, I hope,” muttered John, moving his shoulder gingerly. The warmth of Sherlock’s coat had eased some of the pain, but he was still looking forward to a hot shower, equally hot tea, a proper meal, preferably hot, and then bed.

Sherlock gave him a long, grave glance, then nodded. “I’ll keep it short.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

‘Short’ turned out to be relative, however. Even though Katie and Peter arrived promptly after less than half an hour’s wait, and Anne’s and Kim’s mother five minutes after that, the police took more than an hour to show up. Sherlock had long filled in the others of what the children had done and what John and he had encountered on the heath before another car stopped outside the bunker. 

The respective parents and Peter’s reactions had been milder than the children seemed to have feared. There was a general round of hugs, and an announcement from Mrs. Brown – Anne’s and Kim’s mother – as well as Katie that the matter of the ‘abducted’ foal would be discussed in greater detail once they were back home. Peter assured the children that their action was not going to result in punishment since the foal was unhurt, as were the girls themselves.

“Only next time you take her out for an extended stroll, tell us beforehand, okay?” he told the girls. “Because had Katie not known about Mr. Holmes and hadn’t he been on hand to look into the deaths of the other two, we’d have fetched the police earlier. Even though we’re adults doesn’t mean we can’t be trusted, you know.”

The revelation of the discovery of the barrow was met with great astonishment all round.

“I always wondered about the little ridges and hillocks in the heathland,” mused Peter, “but I thought they were refuse heaps from the sandpits, or earth and sand they cleared away when they built the airfields decades ago. A barrow, who’d have thought. And they really found ancient chain-mail there?”

“That’s at least what the leader of the trio claimed,” confirmed Sherlock, “whatever else can be said of him he knew his way around an archaeological excavation site. Still, there will have to be a thorough investigation and excavation. I know experts at Cambridge University and the British Museum, if you want proper archaeologists have a look at the site. I would assume you have relevant contacts as well, Katie, from your reenactment days?”

Katie nodded. “One of my friends is an forensic archaeologist specialising in the Viking and Anglo-Saxon period. If it’s really an Iron Age barrow, she’ll be over the moon. She teaches at the Institute of Archaeology at UCL, so unless she’s out in the field herself she should be able to come over a short notice. I’ll phone her once we get home. This is marvellous news, Peter. Even if it turns out there is little else but chain-mail and no treasure per se, having such a site on your land is excellent.”

Peter shrugged. To John’s eyes he looked a bit overwhelmed by the entire situation. “Well, it’s going to interfere with our plans for the sheep and the Icelanders, depending on how much of the land they’re going to dig up, but since we’re somewhat behind schedule there anyway and weren’t planning on putting them on the land over winter, I don’t think it’ll matter. The publicity at least should be good for the cider business.”

Katie clapped his shoulder reassuringly. “Who knows, perhaps it’s a second Sutton Hoo you’ve got here.” Of all people, she seemed the most excited. Emma was eyeing her warily, despite multiple reassurances obviously still expecting some punishment or at least hard words. Katie stepped over to her and put her arm round her shoulders and drew her gently against her side. “I should be really angry with, but I’m glad you’re unharmed. Next time you find something strange out here, do tell me, okay? I won’t run to the police, nor bite your head off. But to think that you dealt with so many worries on your own …”

“Well, there were Anne and Kim, and Edmund and Lucy,” said Emma, squeezing her mother’s side in return and finally relaxing against her. “And we were doing all right, really.” She looked up at Katie with a slightly anxious expression. “Will I be grounded now?”

“No. But I’ll have a word with Su and Peter. I’m sure they’ll find ways of ‘punishing’ you. After all, they need plenty of help with renovations. A few days of scraping old wallpaper off walls should curb your desire to abduct animals that don’t belong to you. And I think there won’t be any riding for a while, at least not out here.”

“But the horses, they need to be exercised,” protested Emma.

“Yes, and you can do that by leading them round the paddock.”

Emma sighed. “What about internet? I might need it for school, you see. We have this project for biology …”

“We’ll talk about that at home. I really hope your schoolwork hasn’t suffered from what you pulled here. But for now, let’s see to the horses, all right? And then we’ll get you home. You all look rather done in, particularly Dr. Watson.”

John looked up at the mention of his name. He still felt knackered, despite having thankfully been provided with hot, milky tea out of a thermos by Katie, and an additional blanket by Mrs. Brown. He was doing his best to stay out of the way of the others and had only partially listened to the conversation of Katie and Emma, and Sherlock’s more detailed account to Peter and Mrs. Brown of the goings on at the grave-mound, during which he apparently showed them some snippets of the recordings he had made.

Sitting huddled in jacket, coat and blanket with Sherlock’s scarf still wound round his neck, John felt a bit like a useless idiot when the rest began moving the foal into the horse-trailer attached to Peter’s car, no easy undertaking since Ælgifu was stressed and frisky, tossing her head and sidestepping so that Peter and Katie had to take her between themselves and hold tight onto her halter. The children were loading the saddles and bridles of the Icelanders into Peter’s car. Originally Peter had wanted to ride them home to avoid stressing them by putting them into the trailer with the lively foal, but considering that the rain was still strong and it was very dark by now, he decided to drive them. Just as the children were readying the two mares for transport, two police constables stepped up to the door, brushing rain off their uniforms. Both were looking rather disgruntled.

“Evening,” said one, poking his head inside before flattening himself against the door to let Kim leading Fenja pass through. “Assistant Chief Constables Havers and Farnham. We received a call from a Mrs. Bolton to come here and to send another car to the Goodman farm over at Hollesley. Something about grave-robbing and what not. Is either of you Mrs. Bolton?”

“Yes, I am,” announced Katie from behind him.

He stepped aside again to let her, Peter, Kim and Emma who’d just loaded the Icelanders step into the bunker, before he and his companion followed suit.

“Right, evening. Mrs. Bolton, care to explain what’s all this about? We were told this is important, and we came as quickly as possible, although we didn’t have a second car free for the other location. It’s Bonfire night, so this had better been important indeed as we usually have other things to do tonight.”

Katie stepped forward. “I phoned you, but it’s Mr. Holmes here you should be talking to. He and his colleague Dr. Watson witnessed the robbers and were later attacked by them. They can give you a thorough account of the events and may even want to press charges.”

The constable cast a quick glance at his young colleague who was standing in the doorway trying to scrape mud off his shoes, then looked around the bunker. “Who’s Mr. Holmes?" 

Sherlock drew himself up. Even without the added dramatics of his coat he managed to look imperious, looming over the officer despite barely having an inch over him in height, and at least two stone less in weight. “That’s me. Good of you to come so soon, constable,” he said, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

The policeman bristled. “Like I said, we’ve got some other things on our plate tonight.”

“Yes, chicken curry, as clearly indicated by the stain on your tie. So sorry to interrupt your dinner, constable, but this really _is_ important. You have a fugitive criminal in these parts, who is moreover injured and in need of medical attention which may lead him to break into people’s homes in order to treat his wound. But all in good time. Kindly step over here to my partner Dr. Watson and we’ll explain the matter.”

“May I briefly interrupt, Sherlock, constables?” Peter fell in. “I’ll just get Ælfi and the Icelanders home and tell Su what’s going on. If you have any questions, constable, I’ll happily answer them when I return. Should be less than half an hour.”

“And you are?” asked the policeman, still somewhat irritated by Sherlock’s deduction.

“Peter Miller. My family and I live over at Old Rookery Farm near Eyke, about three miles from here to the north-west. We own this land and the horses you’ve seen outside in the trailer. One of these was attacked by the three men Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson encountered when they were riding on our heath to investigate the absence of a foal, which has since been recovered. But since I wasn’t present when Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson were assaulted and only learned about the grave-robbers a short while ago myself, Mr. Holmes here is in a much better position to explain everything to you. Half an hour, and I’ll be back. Mr. Holmes and Mrs. Bolton here have my number and that of my wife, in case you need to talk to us urgently. But the foal is making such a racket in the trailer, I can’t keep her much longer in there without her hurting the other two horses.” He gave a wave at the assembly, pulled his woollen cap over his ears again and stepped outside.

It was plain to see that both policemen weren’t happy about the development. In an attempt to establish his authority, the elder of them drew himself up. “What’s going on here? What’s all this with the horses? And what are all the children doing here? Don’t tell me they’re part of the grave-robbing thing as well. And who the hell are you? What’s this about ‘investigating’? You don’t look like you’re here in any official capacity,” he then enquired of Sherlock.

The addressed rolled his eyes and sighed. “My name is Sherlock Holmes, I am a consulting detective well known to Scotland Yard.”

The eyes of the younger policeman lit up at that. “Hey, Steve,” he ventured, speaking in the local dialect, “I think I remember reading about him in the papers. It’s the bloke that helped them catch that art counterfeiter who’s been all over the news. He also found the vital clues that led them to convicting the fellow who was responsible for the murder at Heathrow.”

Assistant Chief Constable Havers gave Sherlock a doubtful glance. “Is that so? Well, we aren’t Scotland Yard, and we don’t need fancy detectives round here.”

John laid a calming hand on Sherlock’s arm as he drew breath for a no doubt crushing deduction. When Sherlock glanced at him, he shook his head slightly. “Not now,” he muttered under his breath. “Keep it quick, and with minimum damage for all involved, all right. I don’t want to spend tonight in a holding cell, nor turn up at a police station in the middle of nowhere to bail you out.”

Sherlock frowned as if warring with his ego, then deflated. “I am here in official capacity, so to speak,” he explained, his voice forcibly calm and pleasant which in fact gave it an eerie ring. “Mrs. Bolton contacted me yesterday evening during her visit to London concerning the poisoning of two of Mr. Miller’s Suffolk Punches, one of which, a prized mare important for the successful continuation of the Millers’ Suffolk Punch stud, had died very recently under strange circumstances. When we arrived at their farm last night, we learned that another of their horses, namely the foal of the latest deceased, had vanished and apparently been stolen. Since no strangers had been seen round the place and all evidence pointed towards the foal having simply been lead away, today Dr. Watson and I borrowed two horses from the Millers to have a look round the vicinity. We promptly found the foal, which had been brought to this makeshift stable for safekeeping. That’s why the children are here. It became rather obvious early on in our investigation that they had been behind the matter. Out of concern for the foal’s safety, they had organised the ‘abduction’. The animal was unharmed and rather well looked after, as you can see by the arrangements here. While we were waiting here for the children to arrive, Dr. Watson and I spotted three quad riders crossing the land. Since it’s private property and moreover a protected natural habitat which was going to be damaged by the quads, we ruled out the possibility that the Millers had allowed these vehicles on their land. Therefore, we followed the riders to find out whether they were simply trespassing for pleasure or whether they had another, more definite destination. The latter proved to be the case. We discovered them excavating a barrow. They were well equipped with all kinds of archaeological tools, even a metal detector. Again the likelihood that the detectoring had been arranged with and allowed by the landowners seemed minuscule. Ergo, they were not only trespassing, but digging illegally. The excavation site showed clear signs of repeated work sessions undertaken during a prolonged period of time. The trio had even covered the site with a tarpaulin and hidden that under loose vegetation to prevent it getting spotted by passers by. Not an indicator of a legal excavation, I am sure you’ll agree. Without reliable mobile reception, there was no way for us to call you or the owner of the land right away, so we decided to at least record what we could of their activities. I have photographs as well as video and audio files on my phone which I will forward to you as soon as I have fast WiFi or at least 3G reception again. During the recording we were discovered. I was able to deduce that two of the men were local. When I described them to Mrs. Bolton later, she confirmed my deductions and indicated they were the Goodman brothers. The two Misses Brown here,” he pointed at Kim and Anne, “were also able to confirm it, having had dealings with them before. That’s why we asked for another police car to be send to their farm. A pity you didn’t manage to, because like this there is a good chance that the brothers will have left to hide somewhere else, as they must expect having been recognised.”

The two constables exchanged glances again. “We’ll pass by there on our way back,” said Havers. He still looked somewhat grumpy and ill-pleased, likely brought on by Sherlock’s aloofness, but he couldn’t hide his excitement at the description of events. John reckoned that they weren’t getting many unusual cases round here.

“You said you were attacked,” piped up Farnham. 

Sherlock nodded. “The three men reacted with violence to our interruption of their enterprise, despite us not provoking them. They chased me with their quads while I was on horseback. One of my pursuivants keeled over and injured himself, but was able to remount his machine. It's highly likely he and his brother returned home. The quad was damaged and even though he was able to restart it, it was leaking oil and he won’t have managed to drive far.”

“What happened to the third?” asked Farnham, his eyes round. Even more than his older colleague, he was clearly excited by Sherlock’s account, perhaps looking forward to getting to deal with ‘real’ criminals for a change.

“The third attacked me and my horse when I tried to prevent him from capering with some of the finds they had excavated,” put in John. The two officers had so far completely ignored him safe for a brief glance at his huddled shape, all their attention fixed on Sherlock as he had paced to and fro in front of them, gesticulating with his large, elegant hands, his deep voice booming and echoing in the low bunker.

Now John straightened a little under his load of coats and blankets. “I’m Dr. John Watson, Mr. Holmes’ partner. When I accosted the third man – the leader of the trio –, he hit my horse’s head with the metal detector, then took off on his quad. I chased him on horseback, and he attacked me again by cutting across my path, causing himself to crash his machine and injure his leg, and me to fall off my horse. He was gone when Mr. Holmes found me. I didn’t see him leave because the fall knocked me about a fair bit. Only his machine was still there, and still is. He left definite traces of a leg injury, however, and Mr. Holmes is right, he’s going to need medical attention. If I were you, I’d phone round local GPs and taxi companies whether he showed up there or hitched a ride, and check the houses of those living in a three mile radius from the crash site. It’s unlikely he managed to walk much further than that with this kind of injury, especially in this weather and the lack of light.”

“Was he also local?” asked Havers. What distrust he had harboured towards Sherlock seemed to have evaporated.

Sherlock shook his head. “He didn’t have a local accent, sounded fairly RP with a trace of the Midlands. His quad was new, unlike the ones the Goodman brothers rode which had clearly been used on farms and in rough terrain before. He made the impression of an academic. He certainly had some archaeological knowledge and training in field work. If he is still working in an official capacity, it should be easy to find him on the roster of teaching staff from local universities as far as London, Oxford and Cambridge. They often have photographs on their websites, too. With a reliable internet connection, Dr. Watson and I will have a look and see if we can find him. Police may even have him on record. This didn’t seem to be the first crime he was involved in, going by his professionalism and also his ruthlessness. If you want to help, look for academics who have recently lost their posts for being involved in some legal, financial or work-related difficulties, for example faked publications or degrees, or the misappropriation of trust or fund money. I’m sure it won’t be difficult to find our man.”

The policemen nodded. Farnham had thoughtfully taken out a small notebook and was writing down Sherlock’s instructions. “What I don’t understand,” said Havers slowly, gazing around the bunker once again, “is how the thing with the kids and the stolen foal fits into all this. Was it a mere coincidence that you happened upon the trespassers, or is there a link between the abducted foal, the dead horses and the three men?”

“Ah, yes, here’s where our three young ladies should add their bit,” Sherlock invited the girls who looked troubled, exchanging nervous glances. At length Emma stepped forward from where she had stood close to her mother. She jerked up her head and looked straight at Havers. “It was my idea, mister. To bring Ælfi – Ælfgifu, the foal – here. After her mum had been killed, I thought she wouldn’t be safe in the stable, and I thought the three men were after her. We’d seen them digging, and they’d seen us, and they told us not to tell anybody, neither our parents nor the police, or else they would hurt the horses. And then two _were_ killed even though we didn’t say anything, and I just didn’t know what else to do.”

She stood straight and proud, whatever anxiety she might be feeling facing up to a police officer hidden. Katie walked over to her and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Feisty girl you’ve got there, ma’am,” said Havers.

“I know,” said Katie proudly, squeezing her shoulder. “And she needs to go home soon, as there’s school tomorrow. So we’d better wrap this up for today. 

“Well, we’re not done yet, are we?” Farnham objected. “We need statements from all of you, and the children will have to come in for further questioning if they’ve indeed been blackmailed by the three men, as will Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson, and Mr. Miller. You didn’t know about your children’s doings?” he then enquired of Katie and Mrs. Brown, who shook their heads.

“No, they kept it quiet all the time,” said Mrs. Brown. “We only learned of it today when Katie – Mrs. Bolton – phoned us to come here. But the foal only disappeared yesterday, and since the children had gone to school and work as usual we didn’t have reason to suspect anything.”

“When were the other two horses killed?” enquired Havers. “And is there proof that they were murdered indeed, and didn’t just die of natural causes?”

“Stomach samples were taken and analysed in both cases,” explained Sherlock. “One horse, a stallion, died about two months ago, and the mare six days ago. Both samples showed traces of vegetation poisonous for horses, but different toxins in each case. the first sample was processes by the local vet, Dr. Hensley. You should invite him in for questioning, too, because even though he found toxic vegetation which shouldn’t have occurred in the stallion’s fodder, he did not encourage any further investigation. And he should have.”

Constable Farnham nodded and dutifully wrote down Hensley’s name.

“And you believe the three men you encountered today were involved in these poisonings?” Havers wanted to know of the girls.

“We don’t have proof. But they threatened to harm them, so it made sense. Who else would want to hurt them?”

“Or their owners,” muttered Sherlock thoughtfully. “Well,” he then announced aloud, “you’ll certainly learn more from the Goodman brothers, constables, once you catch them. There is a chance they were involved in the horse killings, but personally, I doubt it, based on the accounts we have heard. At least the first one doesn’t seem to have been their doing. But it seems the men heard about the circumstances of the horses’ deaths and used the threat of more killings to put pressure on the girls, meaning there is a good possibility that they know who was behind them because the Millers didn’t spread the information about. In any case there should be some guard at the Millers’ farm tonight, just in case.”

“I’d like to have a look at this excavation site,” said Farnham.

“Good luck with that,” muttered John, groaning softly when his shoulder gave another throb of pain. “You won’t be able to see much in the dark, especially with the rain pouring down. We covered it with the tarpaulin again so it should be protected from the elements. The tools and the metal detector are under there as well, and the damaged quad lies where it crashed. Oh, don’t forget to tell them about the samples you took, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock glided over to John and pulled up the blanket which had partly slid from his shoulders, before stooping to burrow into the pockets of his coat to find the evidence bags. “He is right. I propose we inspect the site tomorrow. We’ll try and organise an expert to accompany us – Mrs. Bolton knows relevant people – to assess the historical potential of the find. Also, the land’s owners should be present as well, and they have enough on their plate tonight dealing with their horses and securing the stables for the night. Moreover,” he stepped closer to John and placed a hand on his shoulder in a blatant display of both protective- and possessiveness, “Dr. Watson was injured and needs rest and medication. 

John sighed. “I’m all right, Sherlock,” he said, sorely tempted to lean into Sherlock’s side, if only for a moment.

Sherlock only shook his head. “John,” he said, his voice a mixture of exasperation and what seemed to be true concern. “Don’t try to trick me, you know it doesn’t work,” he added quietly. “You can barely breathe without wincing.”

The two policemen exchanged a glance. Neither looked happy at the prospect of leaving the case like this, with so many questions unanswered and a number of loose ends that needed tying up, not to mention three suspects on the run and what looked like rather a lot of paperwork.

“We should at least get all your personal data, and what statements you can make now,” said Constable Havers at length. “And we’ll pass by the Goodman farm and afterwards the Millers’. Old Rookery it was, right?”

“Here is what I managed to collect from the crashed quad,” said Sherlock, handing the evidence bags over to Constable Farnham. “The rain will have washed away most of the blood that the fugitive had left on the chassis, but this should be sufficient for a DNA sample. The fibres are from his trousers. As for the Goodman boys, I doubt they’ll hold out long before they spill the entire story. Put some pressure on them concerning the dead horses. As I said, I doubt they had anything to do with the killings themselves but found the idea convenient to frighten the girls into silence. Actually, I think I should accompany you.”

“Yes, thank you, Mr. Holmes,” the older officer returned somewhat testily, apparently feeling his authority undermined by Sherlock’s assertiveness. “But we do know how to do our job.” John thought that actually, the man should count himself lucky as he hadn’t been exposed to a Sherlock in his full fearsome glory. Still, even this mellowed version was likely to rub people up the wrong way, although these two officers had admittedly held out much better than a number of London’s finest. Nobody had tried to punch or handcuff Sherlock yet, which John counted as a success.

“Then do it,” replied Sherlock, equally curt, the ‘t’ brisk and sharp.

“Right,” said Farnham, seemingly to speed up procedures and avoid a quarrel from developing. “If you could fill in these forms.” He withdrew a couple of sheets from a folder. “You can do it for your children if they’re underage. We’ll likely need to contact you again tomorrow morning.”

“Does that mean we won’t have to be at school?” asked Anne hopefully. Her mother shook her head firmly at this and rolled her eyes.

“It depends on how things develop with the Goodman chaps. We’ll let your parents know. Are you going to be filing an official complaint or pressing charges about the assault, Dr. Watson?”

John shook his head, which hurt. “If it helps convict the trio, I will, but otherwise I don’t see the point. Two of them were injured as well, and since I chased the leader and took a fall in the process, the question of guilt is rather moot. There were no witnesses to the attack, either, so …” He was tempted to shrug, but thought the better of it.

“We’ll mention the attack in our statement,” said Sherlock curtly without looking up from the paper form he was filling out briskly with his spidery handwriting. He had taken a seat on the bale next to John. His movements spoke of impatience. He seemed fed up with the slow, plodding police procedure, but instead of displaying his habitual open disregard for said procedure, John sensed a strange tension in him, which, in retrospect, had been present since his accident. Apparently feeling John’s gaze on him, Sherlock raised his eyes from his writing and gazed at him.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” replied John softly, not keen on the others overhearing them. “It just surprises me that you seem content to more or less let the case rest for tonight, that’s all. Usually you’d firmly insist on visiting the Goodman brothers yourself instead of casually mentioning you’d like to see them. Or you’d be following the trail of our fugitive over the heath, even at night. Hell, I would, if I was unhurt. And yet here you sit and fill out boring forms. That’s … unusual, to say the least. Almost worrying, to be honest.”

Sherlock shrugged and resumed his writing. “Perhaps I’ve rearranged my priorities when it comes to this particular case.”

“Oh? Why that? What’re your priorities, then? You’re not even annoying the constables like you do with the Yarders.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I should think my motivation was obvious even to you. _Particularly_ to you. Usually the Work takes precedence. We’ve more or less solved part of the case and handed it over to the officials, who I'm still going to assist. The rest can wait until tomorrow. Your injuries can’t." 

John stared at him, at the stiff set of his spine and shoulders, the way he was biting his lower lip. He noted the grey eyes glued to the form and heard the soft sniff Sherlock gave as he avoided meeting John’s gaze. He felt warmth spread in his chest. Sherlock was right. In nine of ten cases, the Work came first and John had to run to keep up and make second. But now Sherlock was actively trying to accommodate him, almost more than John was comfortable with. He was touched by the effort, however.

Bumping his good shoulder against Sherlock’s, “Thank you,” he told him softly but earnestly. “I appreciate your concern, I really do. But I’m not as badly off as I look. You’d better accompany these coppers to the Goodmans to prevent them from messing up. Katie can take me home. I’ll have a hot shower and perhaps a nap and be as good as new.”

Sherlock frowned at him. “Sure?” he asked tentatively.

“Sure. Remember, medical professional, this one here. Although admittedly I’m a rubbish patient, at least according to Bill Murray, I happen to be a very good doctor. So trust me when I say I’ll be fine. Go and have a chat with the Goodmans and tell me about it later.”

Sherlock studied him, doubt clearly written across his features. _Good God, since when has this man started to ask my permission to go and solve cases?_ thought John. _He really has changed._ He bumped his shoulder again. “Come on, piss off and be brilliant.” He began to take off coat and scarf. “You’ll be needing this.”

“I’ll be quick,” promised Sherlock, receiving the garments. After a moment’s hesitation, he leaned in for a quick kiss. Rising, tying the scarf round his neck and donning the coat with a dramatic swirl, “Ready, constables?” he announced. “Good, let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The illustration for this chapter is called "[You're cute together](http://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/103809498508/youre-cute-together-illustration-for-chapter)":
> 
>  


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year, everybody. Thanks once more for reading and leaving comments and kudos.

Before they set out, Sherlock withdrew his phone, scowled at it and the apparent lack of reception, then asked Anne to text Peter about the planned proceedings and that he didn’t have to return to the bunker but wait for Sherlock and the police to come to his place.

When the two constables and Sherlock had left, John rose and stretched carefully. Katie, Mrs. Brown and the three girls had begun to gather together the grooming utensils and empty canisters.

“I’ll fetch the bales on my way to work tomorrow,” said Kim, “and return them to the Trust.”

“I hope you didn’t just steal them, Kimmy,” her mother said sternly.

“‘Course not, mum. Turns out I borrowed them, and for what hay and straw we actually used I made a donation of all the tip money we got from the rich Russians yesterday when we helped unload and stable their racehorses. Gosh, you won’t believe what horses they brought. They’re beautiful Thoroughbreds and two Arabians, very slim and fit, and most of them so young. Some are mere yearlings, their coats clipped apart from their legs which makes them look like they’re wearing furry stockings. But they’re so high strung and sensitive. You have to handle them with gloves, almost. Not like our big, plodding Punchies. It’s like the racers are on speed all the time. One of them won the Grand National last year and is now their new hope for establishing a new stud and producing prize foals.”

Katie nodded. “I had a tough time shoeing two of them today, and file the hooves of three others. They certainly need a lot more care and looking after than the Punches or Su’s and Peter’s hardy Icelanders. But then they’re shockingly valuable. Did you see the grey mare they’re hoping to train for the Grand National next year? She’s magnificent, and you could likely buy a flat in London for her price. It actually worries me that she’s set to run in that race since it’s so dangerous. It’d be a shame if she had an accident there.”

She looked about. “Well, are we done here? Good. Emma, I’ll take you and John home, so say bye to Anne and Kim and Caroline.”

Somewhat reluctantly, the girls took leave and divided up into the respective cars. With a sigh, John sank into the passenger seat of Katie’s battered Volvo, while a silent and likely tired Emma climbed onto the rear bench.

Nobody felt the need to make conversation during the short drive to Katie’s cottage. John was actually glad about the quiet and sat staring out of the window at the distant fireworks that were illuminating the rainy sky over Rendlesham.

Once arrived at the cottage, Katie unloaded two bags of shopping onto to kitchen table. “I was on my way home when Emma and Sherlock called, and subsequently drove right on to the hideout. I reckon both of you want a bath or shower now, right? You certainly need one, Emma. Do you have homework for tomorrow?”

Emma shook her head. “Finished already.”

“Good. Then it’s shower, dinner, and then bed for you, since I assume you’re going to spend at least an hour on the phone with Anne before you actually fall asleep tonight.”

Emma looked somewhat guilty at that and hurried up the staircase.

Katie turned to John. “Anything I can do for you, John? I’m afraid we’re not very well equipped with painkillers, just some Aspirin and Paracetamol. If you need anything else, tell me, and I’ll drive to Woodbridge and get it. I’ve got some Voltarol gel, I think, from when a horse stepped on my foot a while ago, and arnica salve which might help your shoulder.”

“Should be fine,” replied John. “I’ll gladly take the Voltarol, and perhaps a painkiller if things get worse, but I think a hot shower will take the worst off the pain.”

Katie looked worried still, so he smiled at her reassuringly. “Don’t mind me, Katie,” he told her. “I’ve been through much worse.”

She nodded. “So I’ve heard. Still, tell me if you need anything. Do you have particular wishes concerning food? I forgot to ask this morning. Any allergies, things you don’t like or like in particular?”

John shook his head. “I’m easy to keep food-wise, and so is Sherlock, whenever he deigns to eat at all.”

She grinned. “Full-time occupation, looking after that one, eh?”

John smiled wryly. “You’ve no idea.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

When John reached their room and began emptying the pockets of his jacket, placing mobile, gun, pencil and notebook on the desk, he realised that he had left some of his belongings, mainly his wallet, in the saddlebags which had been returned with the Icelanders to the Millers’ far. His rucksack was there as well. Sighing, he reached for his phone and texted Sherlock in the hope he was going to see it before he reached the Millers.

Dropping the mobile on the sofa, John stretched carefully. His neck was stiff, his head was throbbing dully with an intensity that made him reconsider his estimate of the severity of a potential concussion, his ribs twinged at each deep breath, and the less said about his shoulder, the better.

There was a knock on the door. “I left the Voltarol and the painkillers in your bathroom,” Katie informed him from the other side. “If you want to take a bath instead of a shower, I’ll tell Emma to hurry in the other bathroom.”

“Shower’s fine, thank you, Katie,” John called back. “No need to chase her out.”

Gathering together his things, he set out for his shower.

 

**- <o>-**

 

Half an hour later he was back in the guestroom carefully towelling his hair. The warm water had been pure bliss and done a lot to ease his tense muscles. He had eschewed taking the painkillers, but carried them to his room for potential later use. The faint smell of dinner lingering in the corridor had reignited his hunger and made his stomach rumble. To his surprise, he found a text from Sherlock.

_Right, I’ll get your things for you. SH_

_God, the Goodman boys really are idiots. They didn’t even consider not returning home and hiding somewhere else. SH,_ proclaimed another, and a third, sent only a few seconds afterwards, read:

_How is your shoulder? SH_

John smiled as he read it. He texted back:

_Better. Shower helped. Remember not to annoy the constables too much. I meant what I said about not wanting to bail you out. J_

He was certain Sherlock was rolling his eyes.

_You know me, John. SH_

_Yeah, that’s why I’m worried. Hurry up there. Katie is cooking dinner. J_

_It’s going to take a while longer, I’m afraid, so start without me. The boys are being stubborn despite their fierce mother who has been giving them hell after finding out what they’ve been involved in. And the officers are doing everything, and I mean _everything_ by the book, meaning they won’t let me chat to the boys to speed things up. Makes one appreciate Lestrade and his rather unconventional adherence to procedure all the more. SH_

John smiled.

_Make sure to tell him occasionally. And try not to spend all night on this case, okay? I’d appreciate something to warm my back and shoulder tonight. J_

_There were extra blankets on the shelf in our room, and surely Katie has a hot water bottle she can lend you. SH_

Now John felt compelled to roll his eyes.

_Sometimes you really can be incredibly dense, Sherlock. This was a not so subtle request for your company in bed tonight as a source of warmth. J_

_Why didn’t you say so if that’s what you meant? Oh, it seems we’re getting somewhere here and that my input is required. Finally. See you later. SH_

John smiled, shaking his head.

_Have fun. And behave. See you._

He hesitated for a moment, weighing his mobile in his hand, before adding:

_Love you, J._

 

**- <o>-**

 

His phone remained silent throughout dinner. Likely Sherlock was indeed busy interrogating the two brothers, or else he had no reception again. Like during the car ride, the meal was a quiet, somewhat subdued affair. Emma had already donned her pyjamas and was swathed in a colourful blanket, looking like an oversized paisley caterpillar as she said devouring pumpkin soup, bread and cheese and beetroot salad. John marvelled at her eating the salad, actually. She was the first child of his acquaintance to eat beetroot voluntarily. He vividly remembered the battles his parents had fought with Harry and him. To this day, he wasn’t particularly fond of the vegetable and its somewhat earthy flavour, but he had to admit after carefully trying the salad that it tasted rather nice.

“I phoned Liz, my friend from UCL, by the way,” said Katie as she was clearing away the soup bowls and plates and fetching some vanilla yoghurt from the fridge for dessert. “She’s going to come over tomorrow, hopefully before noon if she can organise someone to take over her class. She’s very excited. There have been some recent finds of Anglo-Saxon brooches and what might have been grave-goods in the Rendlesham area, apparently, but no major excavations per se. The artefacts were mostly stuff detectorists and archaeologists found in the fields. So if the barrow proves to be genuine, she said it had the potential to be important indeed. I’m pretty excited myself, to be honest. God, Andrew would have loved this.”

Emma looked up at the mention of her father’s name and watched her mother with a grave expression that made her look much older than her twelve years. Katie noticed, and reached out to stroke her hair.

“I’m really sorry about what we did, mum,” said Emma. “I never wanted you to worry.”

Katie sighed. “Well, you’re lucky no harm came to you or anybody else, and that I only learned of your and Anne’s undertaking when it was more or less over. Otherwise I _would_ have worried. Imagine you’d gone missing, too.”

“Well, I guess Sherlock would have found us anyway,” said Emma with a shrug, ladling yoghurt into her bowl.

Katie laughed softly. “Yes, guess he would. He is rather unique, your friend.” She looked at John.

“They’re boyfriends,” Emma informed her helpfully round a mouth full of yoghurt.

John felt himself blush at this blatant (but true) statement. “I know,” said Katie, smiling. “And about time, too, from what Molly told me about them.”

“Pity that,” Emma went on, glancing at John over the rim of her bowl, “I think mum needs one as well to cheer her up sometimes, and you seem rather okay and I think she likes how you look. Not sure about Sherlock. He looks a bit odd with his strange eyes and—”

“That’s quite enough, Emma,” Katie interrupted her. “I won’t be needing a boyfriend any time soon. But thank you for wanting to cheer me up. Actually, you do, most of the time. Unless you abduct horses and face down grave-robbers, of course. I’m fine. If I’m sad sometimes, that’s just because I miss your dad.”

“I miss him too,” said Emma, and devoted her sole attention to her dessert.

A short while later, after she had emptied her bowl, she rose to collect Katie’s and John’s and announced that she was going to do the washing up. Both of Katie’s eyebrows went up at this, but she refrained from commenting. John gratefully accepted the cup of tea he was offered.

“I was going to watch the news in the living room,” said Katie. “You’re very welcome to join me.”

“Yes, I think I will,” he replied, “although I’m not sure I’ll last long this evening.”

“Shoulder any better?”

“Some, yes. The hot shower helped, as did the Voltarol. I should go to bed, but I’d like to wait until Sherlock returns. Unfortunately, that may be hours yet.”

“Well,” said Katie with a smile and a nod towards the IKEA couch in the living room and the woven, patterned throws lying there. “I can light a fire and you can stretch out here. I need to see to some paperwork on the computer, meaning I’ll have to spend some time in your room, if that’s okay.”

“Yeah, sure, I’ll gladly camp out here until you’re done.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

Together, they watched the news and sipped their tea, a fire roaring in the brick fireplace. John looked around the cozy, somewhat cluttered living room with its bookshelves, the odd collection of artefacts and the pictures and prints on the walls. Even though there were no Victorian wallpapers and the furniture was somewhat different, it reminded him of their own in Baker Street where he’d instantly felt at home after stepping over the threshold.

Katie seemed lost in thought, now and again glancing towards the kitchen where Emma was clattering with crockery. By the time she was finished and the weather forecast was up, John had more or less sunk into the sofa, a blanket draped over him, his tea mug cradled over his stomach, his eyelids drooping. He barely noticed when Katie got up, switched off the television, and, thoughtfully, took the mug from his unresisting fingers to place it on the low coffee table.

 

**- <o>-**

 

He woke when the couched dipped next to him and a smell of horse and wet wool filled his nose. Cracking open an eye, he beheld Sherlock sitting next to him slightly bowed over a bowl of soup the contents of which he was practically inhaling.

Carefully shifting into an approximately upright position (at which his ribs and shoulder complained generously), “Hi there,” muttered John.

Sherlock grunted to acknowledge him, his mouth full of pumpkin and bread. He did turn to John, however, and gave him a critical once over. “Hello,” he said when his mouth was free again. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I was overrun by a lorry, or rather a couple of Suffolk Punches, but it’s much better than this afternoon. What time is it, by the way? I didn’t mean to drop off.”

“Quarter past eleven,” replied Sherlock, starting to clean his bowl with the remains of his bread, before apparently changing his mind. He got up and stalked into the kitchen. John heard some clatter and then the sound of a microwave.

“Tea?” asked Sherlock through the door.

“Yes, please. My mug is still here.”

Sherlock came and collected it. Watching the droop of his shoulders and his stiff walk, John could tell that he was exhausted and somewhat sore from riding as well. His hair was a mess of wayward curls like it often became in humid weather, and his face was pale except for the tip of his nose. The fact he was eating so voraciously seemed to indicate that at least a major part of the case seemed to have been resolved, or else that the demands of his transport were too persistent to be ignored.

“So, what happened at the Goodman Farm?” enquired John when they were settled next to each other on the sofa again, Sherlock with a generous second helping of soup and bread, and John with his tea.

Sherlock snorted. “More or less what I anticipated. The two brothers were still at home and tending to their injuries (leg for the one, pride for the other). The elder seemed to have expected a visit from the police and did not even try to scarper. His brother made it as far as the stables before his mother called him back.”

“His mother, seriously?” grinned John. “You texted she was fierce.”

“Oh yes. Remarkable woman, one wouldn’t want to cross her. As soon as she learned that her two boys had been involved in some mischief, she put massive pressure on them to cooperate with the police. Which they did.”

“Not much spine there, eh? Like you expected.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I wouldn’t call it lack of spine, but rather existence and application of common sense. They knew they didn’t stand a chance in the face of all the evidence we had accumulated. Moreover, as we’d already noticed, despite certain reckless (and stupid) tendencies, neither of the brothers has the makings of a true criminal. Once they’d realised that they might even lower their own punishment by spilling the beans, they did so.”

“Did they give away the identity of their boss?” asked Katie who had appeared in the doorway. Sherlock invited her over with a gesture, and after stoking the fire, she took a seat in the rocking chair adjacent to the sofa.

“They told the police as much as they knew, and I am pretty sure they didn’t lie. The name they gave does not match with any person on university rosters in the vicinity, however. I checked. He didn’t reveal his true name to them, and I sincerely doubt he ever intended to share the proceeds of the artefacts with them. They were just convenient muscle to do the dirty digging. And they are aware of it, which definitely lowered their inhibitions to betray him.”

“How did they meet, though?” mused Katie.

“Apparently the elder bother, Matthew, encountered him at a symposium at Essex University. He was there as a guest of one of the lecturers. Matt implied that our special friend and the lecturer, a Dr. Lydia Montville who is currently teaching Environmental Engineering at Oxford, seemed very close. Either close friends or a even a couple. The police is on to her now. Anyway, during one of the breaks between lectures, Matt and a few other students got chatting with Montville and her friend, who was introduced to them as Dr. Martin Sommersby. They discovered that they shared an interest in detectoring. Apparently Matt and Toby had been to sessions of a local club. Sommersby seemed very interested in joining them for some detectoring once Matt had mentioned where he lived. Even though neither the Goodmans nor our two eager constables made the intellectual leap (unsurprisingly, really), it seemed clear to me that Sommersby had already researched the area, knew a lot about this part of Suffolk, and was actively looking for some well-informed locals to team up with. Matt hinted at him having been aware of the dispute over the Millers’ recently acquired land, of which Matt and Toby were well informed as their uncle is one of the pig farmers who was interested in buying it, even going as far as bidding on it in the auction, apparently, but losing out to the Millers in the end.”

“Oh, did they indicate whether there was any resentment on their uncle’s behalf for not getting the land?” John wanted to know.

“Initially, yes, but as soon as Mr. Goodman learned that he wouldn’t have been able to keep pigs on it due to environmental concerns, the seemed rather relieved not having wasted any money. As for Sommersby, he appears to have studied old maps and documents to find out about yet unexcavated barrows and Iron Age cemeteries. Matt remembered mentioning the strange hillocks he and his brother had found in and around Rendlesham Forest while (illegally) riding their quads in the protected countryside.

“In early August they met for the first time for a stroll across the land and a spot of detectoring. Subsequent sessions resulted in them focusing on the sandy ridges on the Millers’ land which looked the most promising. And lo! and behold, one day their detector struck gold. Or at least metal. The next time their ‘Doc’ was in town, they started digging. That’s when Emma and Anne discovered them.”

“What did they say about the girls?” asked Katie quickly.

“More or less what they told us already. They threatened to hurt their horses. Toby claimed, and his brother agreed, that they were referring to the Icelanders the girls were riding at the time and not the Millers’ Suffolk Punches. When asked whether they had known that the Millers’ stallion had been killed, Matt claimed he hadn’t at the time, only learned of it later as he’d been away at university when it happened. Toby said he’d heard it from Dr. Hensley when he had been around to help with calving.”

“So they weren’t involved in killing Rædwald?” asked Katie.

Sherlock shook his head. “No. Nor the mare, I think. They tried to capitalise on the news, however, knowing that they were going to add weight to their threat against the girls’ beloved horses. But there is virtually no evidence that they were involved in the killings, and neither of them I consider a skilled enough liar to try and pretend if things were otherwise.”

“Do you think their boss did it?” enquired John.

“Again unlikely. He was only around sporadically, at least according to the brothers, and to get at the horses would have required someone familiar with the Millers’ routines and those of their animals in order to determine the right time to strike unnoticed. Both horses died in their stalls, not out on pasture. Whoever poisoned them would have needed access to the stables at a time when nobody was around to spot them. This rather sounds like a local did it. No, I think the killings are unrelated to the discovery of the barrow, although of course we can only be entirely sure once we’ve captured the elusive Dr. Sommersby.”

“Did the police search for him last night?” John wanted to know.

Sherlock gave a frustrated sigh. “Apparently they made a few phone calls to local doctors and taxi companies, and also asked round the B&Bs and hotels in the vicinity. But without success. I’m rather convinced he had a car parked somewhere and left the area completely. The Goodman boys weren’t able to help there. They said he arrived on his quad at their appointed meeting place on the edge of the forest. Upon my enquiry after the origin of the quad, they said they doubt it’d was borrowed from anybody round here as they know most who own such machines. I charged them with asking around, though, and the police is going to investigate as well, but given their shortage of staff and general inefficiency, I am not sure much will come of it. We do have the blood samples I took and which I told the police to forward to Molly, procedure be dammed. She is going to check the DNA against what the MET has on record. Perhaps this will provide us with further clues. All we know for now is what the Goodmans revealed, and much of that information is based on what Sommersby himself told them, which, basically, is a big heap of lies.”

“I’ll ask Liz tomorrow whether she has heard of him, or knows anybody of his description,” said Katie.

“Your friend from UCL?” assumed Sherlock, then cocked his head thoughtfully. “Her name doesn’t happen to be Elizabeth Reid, does it?”

“Yes, that’s her. There’s a ‘Dr.’ in front of her name now, though. You know her?”

Sherlock nodded, finally finishing his soup which he had somewhat neglected during his account. “She was at Cambridge roughly the same time as I and we shared some lectures on forensic archaeology. Also, at some point a ... friend of mine was interested in her romantically (well, or at least sexually) but she turned him down.”

Katie laughed. “Yeah, that sounds like her. Never been much interested in blokes, Liz. At some point we almost became a couple, actually, but then she got this scholarship abroad and it didn’t happen. Luckily, I can say now, because our friendship endured over the distance when a relationship might not have. Don’t know whether she has a partner at the moment, but if so, I highly doubt it’d be a guy.”

John was about to enquire whether the ‘friend’ Sherlock had mentioned was Victor, which seemed likely, but he refrained. Sherlock gave him a quick sideways look, indicating to John that he, in his uncanny way, had again deduced what he had been thinking. He gave a brief, brisk nod, then turned to Katie again.

“Anyway, concerning the horse killings we are back at square one. I would like to talk to Dr. Hensley, though, and have a look at the results of the first autopsy and toxicology report.”

As he took another sip of his tea, staring into the flames of the fire, John felt something nagging at him. He realised that it had been present for quite some time. Something someone had mentioned but he’d not really paid attention to at the time. It was just a feeling, not a fully fleshed thought. He frowned when it refused to become any clearer. He really needed a proper night’s sleep.

“Did the police mention at what time they want to come over tomorrow to view the barrow?” he asked instead.

Sherlock shook his head, finishing the last of his bread. “They didn’t give a precise time, only a rough estimate. Not too early, I would assume. You won’t have to expect them before noon, rather later. They want to have another chat with the children, but are going to wait until they are back from school. Moreover, they are forwarding the case to Suffolk Constabulary Headquarters at Ipswich, so it’s realistic to expect someone to come from there, too. I told them to contact Lestrade about our fugitive Dr. Sommersby.”

“Lestrade? But there’s not been a homicide. It’s not his division.”

“I know. But he knows the relevant people whose division this is.”

“True. But so do you.”

Sherlock smiled wryly. “Since they don’t particularly like me and most of them still resent me for my alleged involvement in the Richard Brook mystery, I thought it preferable and more expedient if they received the information from a trusted colleague instead of a ‘rogue vigilante’.”

John shook his head, smiling, but then winced at the movement. Sherlock’s expression changed into one of concern. John sighed. “Guess it’s bed for me now. Thanks again for the excellent dinner and for letting us stay here, Katie.”

She shrugged. “It’s the least I can do.”

Carefully, John peeled away the blanket, rose and stretched. “You going to stay out here for a while, Sherlock?”

“No. I need a shower, and I recall you requiring my services as an additional blanket afterwards.”

John chuckled. “That I do. Hurry up. Good night, Katie.”

“Good night,” she replied with a warm and somewhat amused smile.

 

**- <o>-**

 

By the time Sherlock was done in the bathroom, John had almost fallen asleep again, curled up on his undamaged side under a heap of blankets. Drowsily, he registered them shifting and a draught of cool air wafting over him, before a pair of long legs wound between his, and a large but tentative and very gentle hand wandered over his chest while a lanky, shower-warm body attached itself to his back.

“All right?” murmured Sherlock into his ear, his breath smelling of toothpaste, and his moist hair of John’s shampoo.

John nodded as he burrowed backwards into the solid, spice-and-honey scented warmth. “Perfect.”

He felt a soft peck on his neck and smiled, and after a muttered “Good night” and a brief squeeze of the hand splayed over his heart, he drifted off.

 

**- <o>-**

 

John woke abruptly to Sherlock calling his name in a hoarse, desperate voice that barely sounded like his own, and a stabbing pain in his shoulder and sides. The latter was caused by Sherlock hugging him tightly, lying half on top of him, his right hand digging into John’s bad shoulder. He was writhing and squirming like trying to free himself from a confinement, his grip like iron. The pain caused John to leap to full wakefulness immediately.

Sherlock’s head was buried in his other shoulder, and he was calling for John again, his voice muffled now but no less desperate. Carefully and with teeth gritted against the pain, John raised his right arm and stroked Sherlock’s sweaty hair trying to soothe him as he was clearly in the throes of a nightmare.

Sherlock only clutched him tighter, causing John to cry out softly in pain. “Sherlock,” he gasped, “wake up. Sherlock, it’s all right. You’re having a bad dream. Wake up.”

“No, no, John. Please no. Please,” wailed Sherlock, panting into John’s neck.

“I’m here, Sherlock,” soothed John, trying to sound calm despite his voice hissing through his teeth. “I’m here, I’m fine. Please, wake up.”

“John, oh God no, John,” sobbed Sherlock and John felt something warm and wet soak the collar of his t-shirt. Sherlock was crying, his shoulders shaking, his death-grip finally slacking. John reached up and pried his hand from his shoulder to settle it on his biceps instead, before he resumed stroking Sherlock’s back soothingly. His t-shirt was sweaty and clinging to his skin.

“It’s fine, Sherlock,” whispered John. “I’m here. Wake up.”

Whether his words somehow reached through to Sherlock’s consciousness or else Sherlock was waking by himself, he seemed to be coming round. Drawing a deep breath that wracked his entire body and made him sound as if he was emerging from deep water, he pulled his head from John’s shoulder abruptly and gazed round, sniffing. The room was dark but for the soft greenish glow from Katie’s time capsule under the desk. John doubted Sherlock was seeing much and if he was, he didn’t seem to be recognising his whereabouts.

“Sherlock, you’re at Katie’s, in Suffolk,” John told him calmly. “We’re here to investigate poisoned horses and a missing foal.”

Sherlock drew another harsh breath, his eyes roving over the paraphernalia in the room until they alighted on the Totoro figure in its prominent place up on the shelf. John saw how, slowly, recognition dawned. Sherlock’s wide, haunted eyes narrowed as his mind rebooted. His heavy panting calmed slightly. Sherlock turned his head to look down at John, his eyes still roving uncertainly, his hair sweaty and tousled (and seemingly still moist from his shower, which told John that they could not have slept for long), and his expression drawn, tear stains on his cheeks.

“John?” he whispered hoarsely, his voice cracking.

“Welcome back,” said John quietly, running his right hand over his friend’s arm. Sherlock flinched, looked down at John’s face and then at his hand still gripping John’s upper arm. His eyes widened, and he almost flew off John to scramble to the edge of the mattress where he crouched, his back to John and his shoulders heaving.

Not quite knowing what to do, John cautiously shifted closer. “Sherlock?” he asked tentatively. The addressed drew another ragged breath and stiffened, as if to prepare himself for an imminent touch. John froze, his hand which he had lifted to place on Sherlock’s back in a soothing gesture stilling in mid-air.

“I’m sorry, John,” rasped Sherlock, his voice still very much unlike his own, not least because it lacked all of his usual swagger and confidence, sounding timid and broken.

Without looking back at John, he heaved himself to his feet and snatched his coat from where he had placed it over the backrest of the sofa. Donning the garment like a protective vest, he left the room and shut the door behind him. John ran his hand over his eyes and sighed. He hoped Sherlock was not about to venture outside in his state. The Belstaff was fairly warm as far as garments went, but under it Sherlock only wore his old t-shirt and pants (no longer the shiny new pair Mrs. Hudson had provided).

Listening closely to sounds outside the door, John thought he caught the rush of water, likely from the loo or tap in the bathroom. After that there was silence.

Slowly, John moved into a sitting position, to massive complaints from his shoulder, hip and ribs, and, interestingly, his inner thighs. He stretched to reach the desk lamp and switched it on. When his eyes had adjusted to the sudden brightness, he pulled down the collar of his t-shirt to survey the state of his shoulder. Sherlock’s fingers had worsened the bruising, leaving defined marks. John reached up to massage the injury gently with his right hand, hissing with pain. After several minutes of careful ministrations, the stabbing ache had lessened somewhat. Nevertheless the injury felt much worse than before, although John didn’t blame Sherlock for what he had done witlessly.

John wondered whether he should follow him. His experiences with his own nightmares and their aftermath gave him no clear course of action, unfortunately. There had been times when he had been glad about company upon waking up. When he had dreamt about Sherlock’s jump and death, it had soothed him immensely to see the subject of his dreams alive and well. Even the knowledge that Sherlock had held silent vigil during their worst part had often helped, his presence only noticeable in a slight indentation in the mattress or the whiff of his shampoo or aftershave lingering in John’s room. When, shortly after Sherlock’s fall, the disturbing visions had haunted John throughout the day, he had after some coaxing even opened up to Ella and told her about some of them, and realised that talking actually helped disperse the dread and guilt the images carried.

However, at other times, the mere thought of having someone else come to know about his dreams had been utterly out of question. During those instances, John had blessed his solitude, or the fact that Sherlock was as reluctant to talk about these issues as John, and most times chose to show his support and the fact he cared with a cup of tea, a glass of water, or soothing violin music until John had fallen asleep again – or indeed a case, to keep him from sleeping.

But what to do for Sherlock now? John had never encountered him in this state before. He had admitted to having had nightmares during his time abroad, and there had been a few instances afterwards when he had looked ragged and shaken after what should have been a good night’s sleep. John had never enquired after nightmares, sensing Sherlock’s unwillingness to divulge his nightly visions. But John had never heard him cry out in his sleep. The dream must have truly shaken him. Considering what he had called and the fact he had clung to John in desperation, even crying, John assumed it had been about him in some form, perhaps brought on by his accident earlier which seemed to have affected Sherlock more than John had been aware at the time.

Gazing at the grinning Totoro thoughtfully, John decided he had to check on his friend to at least determine what he needed. _Well, trousers would be helpful,_ he decided, _and socks, too._ Angling for his jumper and pulling it over his head with a wince, John then shifted off the bedstead and searched for socks as well. To find Sherlock’s, he needed more light, but finally unearthed a fresh pair near the bottom of Sherlock’s bag. Grabbing his friend’s jeans, too (not minding the fact they smelled of horse), he set out to find Sherlock.

The small bathroom opposite their room was empty, but the sink showed evidence of water having been splashed about. Down the corridor from the direction of the kitchen, John spotted a sliver of light shining from underneath the door. As he drew closer, he could hear sounds of activity, too. A _ping_ sounded from the microwave, and then Emma’s voice announced, “I’ll put honey in yours, okay? And you should really come back inside now. It’s raining, and you’re not even wearing shoes. You’ll catch a cold, and then you’ll be ill and grumpy.”

John slowed his steps when she added, “I won’t tell John if you come inside now. Otherwise I’ll have to fetch him because you’re being silly.”

John halted, standing close to the wall. He couldn’t look inside the kitchen, but he was able to hear the creak of a door, likely the back door shrouded in mosquito netting which led out into the garden. Faintly, he felt a draught of cold air, and smelled rain, wet earth and grass.

“We had a mutual non-disclosure agreement,” said Sherlock, and to John’s great relief his voice while still hoarse had regained some of its sonority and even petulance.

Over the roar of the microwave, Emma replied, “Yes, although that didn’t include you running around outside half naked. You even forgot to put on your trousers.”

“I wasn’t running. Moreover I’m an adult and therefore free to decide when to spend time outside and in what attire. Whereas you are a minor who should be abed after midnight.”

“I had a bad dream and couldn’t fall asleep again, and then I heard you call out and make all kinds of strange noises.”

“You heard me?”

“My room is above yours. At first I thought you were having sex, which I thought would be rather gross. Not because you’re both men, but … I mean … you’re not at home and everything and not everybody wants to hear you moan and call your boyfriend’s name. But then it sounded rather painful, or as if you were really scared of something, the way you cried out. That made me think something else was going on. Did you have a bad dream, too?”

John heard the microwave ping again, followed by the scrape of chairs on the tiled floor which almost drowned Sherlock’s quiet “Yes.”

“Do you want something other than milk? Because you looked like you were going to be sick when you rushed through here and ran outside. Mum always drinks tea when she’s upset. Loads of it. And grandpa says whisky is best. I think we have some somewhere. Dad liked it sometimes. I can go look for it if you want. If you need to be sick, there’s a bucket under the sink. It’s easier to clean than the sink itself if there are lots of clumps in it.”

Despite the grave reason for this nightly meeting, John couldn’t help smile at Emma’s matter-of-fact speech and obvious concern. He longed to see Sherlock’s expression but wondered whether his appearance might be welcome. Apparently Sherlock didn’t want him to know how badly he was off. Eavesdropping didn’t feel right, but interrupting the little exchange, or simply returning to bed even less, somehow. Therefore, pressing himself against the wall, John continued to listen quietly.

“Milk is fine,” replied Sherlock. There was the _clunk_ of a mug hitting the table, followed by the sound of stirring. “Thank you, Emma.”

There were sounds of movement when apparently Emma joined him at the table. “Did you dream about him dying? Because I dream about dad getting killed, often. I think mum does, too. We can never help him, in the dreams, that’s the worst thing. I also dream sometimes that he’s alive still. I’m sad when I wake up and realise he isn’t, but at least they’re better dreams than the others.”

Sherlock didn’t reply, but seemed to be stirring his milk. John imagined him sitting very still while staring into his drink absently, perhaps frowning a little, his mouth a thin line since he often pressed his lips together when he was upset.

“Well,” said Emma after several minutes of silence, “I’m off to bed. If you want chocolate, there’s some in the drawer over there. Mum keeps more in the pantry, the really dark stuff which you can’t really eat a lot of because it makes your tongue feel funny. You should eat some of it. You can melt it in the milk. It contains stuff to cheer you up, like in _Harry Potter_ when they’ve been attacked by the Dementors. They always eat chocolate afterwards and it helps.”

Another moment of silence, followed by a sigh from Emma. “I’ll get some for you, okay?” John heard shuffling sounds and that of a door opening and closing, followed by a muttered “men, seriously”, before Emma announced. “I’m off then. Good night. If you need more chocolate, you know where it is.”

Again Sherlock remained silent. Belatedly, John realised that Emma had to cross the corridor in order to reach the staircase. He pressed himself against the wall, hoping she might not notice him in the gloom, but of course she did. Her eyes widened, but then she bit her lip and smiled very slightly. Winking at him, she gathered the blanket she was wearing like a cloak more tightly round herself and set out in the direction of the stairs.

“Come on in, John,” sighed Sherlock from the kitchen. “It must be cold out there.”

Blushing and cursing himself for it, John obeyed. Even in the warm light of the kitchen lamp, Sherlock’s face looked ghastly pale, his eyes and cheeks shadowed which gave his features a gaunt, haunted expression. His hair was a mess. On the table in front of him, he was cradling a steaming mug of milk with both hands. John noticed how they were shaking very slightly. A bar of dark Lindt chocolate (99%) had been placed in front of him but it was unopened.

“Hey there,” John said quietly. “Sorry about … well … eavesdropping. I just wanted to check on you. And … er … bring you some things.” He held out the clothes to Sherlock who gazed at them briefly but didn’t make a move to take them.

John bit his lip. “I’ll piss off again if you want me to,” he offered, placing the garments over the back of a chair.

Sherlock seemed to be watching the steam rising from his mug, completely lost in thought. John cleared his throat. “Right. I’ll be off, then. Sorry about …”

“Stay,” Sherlock interrupted him. He raised his eyes from his mug. John felt stricken by the intensity of his gaze. Sherlock’s eyes were bloodshot. “And don’t apologise. I should, for waking you, and even more for causing further hurt to your shoulder.”

“You didn’t do it on purpose, Sherlock. It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not,” rasped Sherlock, his voice low yet sharp. “I hurt you. You’re favouring your left arm, and wince slightly with every step you take.”

“You hurt me unconsciously, Sherlock.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last. You’re better off without me.” He stood, folded his coat more tightly round himself, and grabbing his mug, stalked off into the living room. John sighed, gathered up the clothes again and followed him.

Sherlock had curled up on the sofa, his naked feet tucked under his Belstaff. He looked small and almost pitiful in his dishevelled, unhappy state, like a frightened animal huddling against the cold, or hiding from a predator. “So, do you plan to camp out here tonight?” asked John, casting a glance at the embers in the fireplace which were still glowing faintly and emitting faint warmth. There was no more firewood stacked next to it, so he added one of the coal briquets.

Sherlock shrugged, not looking at John. “Go back to bed, John.”

“A moment ago you wanted me to stay?”

Sherlock shrugged again. John guessed he had deleted the statement. “It’s a free country. You’d be foolish, though, because you need rest, and if you think about sleeping on this sofa your shoulder will hurt much worse in the morning. Therefore, I suggest you retire to what more closely resembles a bed.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?” Sherlock turned his head slightly and gave John a sharp yet troubled glance from narrowed eyes over the hem of his upturned collar. “I had a disturbing dream, the memory of which will fade and pass, unless I manage to delete it before that. That’s it. I don’t want to talk about it, and I don’t want you to make me talk about it.”

“Yeah, right, so you want to sit here and stare into what remains of the fire feeling sorry for yourself and making yourself believe that you’re not worthy of my attempts to make you feel better. Is that it? Because if it is, you’re a bloody idiot.”

For a brief moment, Sherlock looked actually angry. But the sharp retort John braced himself for never came. Instead, Sherlock huddled even more tightly into his coat like a turtle or a hermit crab into its protective shell. John stepped closer until he stood next to the sofa.

“Sherlock, listen. I’m not going to make you talk about the dream. But don’t believe for a second that I’ll leave you alone in this state because you’ve convinced yourself in your general low regard for your … don’t know … worth or something that you don’t deserve a bit of care and kindness. Jesus, Sherlock, I’m your best friend, and hopefully even more than that. You can trust me even if you trust nobody else. I want to help you, and be there for you if you’re having a shitty time, all right?”

John was stricken by the obvious suspicion in Sherlock’s eyes. God, Ella would have a field day with him. Trust issues, plain as day. John’s own paled in comparison. He could only assume what had caused Sherlock to become like this. “May I sit down?” he asked gently.

Sherlock eyed him warily over the collar of his coat, before giving a noncommittal shrug. He shifted slightly, however, so that John could lower himself to the seat. Sherlock’s stiff form radiated discomfort, but he didn’t flee, nor did he shrink back further from John.

“You should take my warning seriously,” Sherlock’s quiet voice sounded into the silence that had settled between them. “I am going to hurt you again, out of social incompetence, out of recklessness, out of a misplacing of priorities.”

John regarded him gravely. “Well, warning taken. But what do you expect me to do with it?”

“The sensible thing. Run, fast and far.” He did not say it out loud, but John thought he could hear the added _like everybody else does._

At this, John actually laughed, startling Sherlock who frowned at him in surprise. “Haha, and you really think I’d do that? Me, who invaded Afghanistan and has done countless silly, reckless and downright ludicrous and dangerous things with you? You really think I’d piss off because you’re having a bit of a nightmare? Tell me, Sherlock, how often have you endured my nightmares? Or my temper? Or the fact that it took me two years to overcome my conviction that I’d be better off with some nondescript girlfriend than the true love of my fucking life? I told you before, you won’t get rid of me so easily. I’m here to stay. You think you’re too dangerous for me? Well, it so happens I thrive on danger. When will that massive brain of yours register that I’m going to be around for good?”

Sherlock screwed up his face in frustration. “I’ll get you killed one of these days. My thoughtlessness in combination with your recklessness will. Or I’ll do something so unforgivingly hurtful that you’ll come to resent or even hate me and you’ll leave. And what then? What am I supposed to do without you?”

“How would you cope if I left here and now?” asked John in return.

Sherlock scoffed. “Not well, as my time abroad showed. But the longer we stay together and the closer we get, the more difficult being without you is going to become. The more I let you in, the worse I’ll be off once it’s over. And it _will_ be over at some point. People don’t endure me indefinitely. They leave, they always do, and well for them. If we terminate it now, at least I’d have the knowledge that you’d be alive, and tolerably happy. And I know I’d manage to cope, eventually.”

“No, I fucking wouldn’t be ‘tolerably happy’,” returned John sharply. “What kind of stupid term is that, anyway? I wasn’t happy at all while you were away. Far from it. And I don’t want a repeat, even with the knowledge that you were alive somehow but all on your own and fucking lonely. It doesn’t work, don’t you get it? Us apart, it doesn’t work. And as for one of us getting the other killed ….”

He sighed. “Our job is dangerous, and yet we both enjoy it. Of course I worry about you getting hurt or killed, and I’m touched that you worry about me as well. But do you really want to change what we do?”

Sherlock bit his lip, staring into the embers sadly. “No, I don’t. I just don’t want to lose you.”

Shifting closer, John carefully placed his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and pulled him against his chest. At first, Sherlock tensed, but gradually, he relaxed, and even sighed as he rested his head against John’s jumper. John pulled the blanket he had slept in over both their shoulders, rubbing Sherlock’s back soothingly.

For a while neither spoke. John slid a little further down in the seat so that Sherlock’s tousled head came to rest on his good shoulder. He buried his nose in the dark curls and breathed in. Sherlock sighed and John felt his body relax further.

“The dreams were worse while I was away,” Sherlock murmured at last. “But at least there was no one around I could attack.”

John squeezed his shoulder gently and reassuringly. “I’m sorry to hear that, both that the dreams were worse – which, to be honest, is pretty tough, because this one seemed really intense –, but also that you had to go through this all by yourself. I still resent that you didn’t invite me along, despite trying to understand your reasoning. Just promise me you won’t hare off again and leave me behind.”

Sherlock nodded. “I promise, John. I guess the ‘stick around for good thing’ applies to me as well now since you’re so adamant you don’t want to get rid of me. How odd. I never thought I’d ... settle down with someone. It feels strange, the notion. But ... good.”

John shifted slightly to look at him and his thoughtful, pensive expression. “What did you imagine your life to be like when you considered your future?” he asked with genuine interest.

Sherlock shrugged. “I never really wasted much thought on that. I didn’t expect to make it past thirty, though. And I doubted anybody was going to care if I ceased to exist. Well, perhaps Mycroft would have been disappointed, but mostly about his own failure at ‘saving’ me, a task he seems to have set himself ever since our parents messed up and kicked themselves out of the caring business.”

John looked at him gravely, which Sherlock seemed to notice because he raised his head and returned the gaze steadily. “Don’t pretend surprise, John. I’ve never been suicidal, merely realistic. Moreover, did you expect to lead a long, happy, ordinary life when you enlisted in the army?”

“Don’t know,” replied John honestly. “Perhaps not. I always had this vague idea of settling down at some point after serving my time in Afghanistan and elsewhere. Wife, kids, perhaps a dog and a surgery of my own, either in London or out in the countryside. But I guess it was just a fantasy based on what I thought I wanted, and what people expected. And then I got shot and everything went arse-up, and moreover then I met you, and you managed to turn my life around entirely once again. And I don’t think I’d want the other option now, although a dog would still be nice at some point. I’ve always wanted one, already back when I was a kid. Pity you hate them.”

“I don’t,” said Sherlock quietly. “I loathe most dog owners, passionately, because they are selfish morons who put their own convenience before their dogs’ welfare (and common sense). And ill behaved, untrained dogs (or unleashed ones) can be a nightmare. But I don’t hate the animals per se. I had dog once, as a child.”

“Really? You? What kind of dog? And how come you never mentioned it before?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Sentiment,” he admitted quietly, as if it sufficed as an explanation. John squeezed his shoulder again. “Care to elaborate?” he asked.

Sherlock sighed. “I guess I must.”

“It’s entirely up to you.”

Sherlock shifted until he rested against John’s shoulder more comfortably. “His name was Redbeard,” he said in a low voice. “He was an Irish Setter. He arrived in the family when I was four, the year Mycroft was sent away to Harrow. I think it was my parents’ attempt to provide me with companionship, seeing that Kindergarten and the company of other children wasn’t really an option. Needless to say I adored Redbeard. He was just a puppy when he arrived, and we grew up together. I didn’t get along with most other children, most notably my moronic, cruel cousins, but he and I, we were inseparable. He helped me through the worst when Granny died and shortly afterwards my parents separated.”

He drew a deep breath, staring into the embers. John reached up to stroke his hair, at which the corners of Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “What happened to him?” he asked.

“Mummy couldn’t take him in when I was sent away to school, and father was already out of the picture by that time. Luckily, Edward, granny’s boyfriend, took him in. But half a year later, he was diagnosed with cancer. Redbeard, not Edward, and he had to be put down. I was away at school and was only told he was gone when I was on home leave over Christmas.”

“Oh shit,” said John sympathetically. “Another Christmas fucked up, eh?”

“Pretty much, yes. I don’t think I’ve had a decent Christmas ever since I was nine. Last year was the worst.”

“For me, too. But as I promised, the next one will be better,” said John, kissing Sherlock’s temple. His eyes fell on the mug on the coffee table. “Are you going to drink your milk at all?”

“You can have it if you want.”

“Let’s share. It’ll ease your throat after all the screaming.”

The milk was still warm albeit not hot anymore, and the two men sipped it in turn and in companionable silence.

“You know,” said Sherlock while John was emptying the last drops from the mug, “all this talk about settling down and sticking around for good ....”

“Hm, yes, what about it?”

“Got me thinking.”

“Oh dear,” replied John amusedly. “And what have you been thinking?” A sobering thought struck him and he drew in a surprised breath. “Sherlock, are you thinking about us getting hitched?”

Sherlock’s ears turned red, which was answer enough. “Would you like that?” he asked quietly, almost shyly.

“I ... I don’t know. I never considered it before, not seriously. What about you? You never struck me as the marrying type.”

“I’m not. Definitely not. I’d say I’m not even a relationship type, or companionship type, or any type that involves sharing quarters with another human being, but here I am stuck with you, as you keep reminding me.”

John chuckled. “Oh, and that made you think we might as well stick a ring onto it?”

“I don’t need a ring,” scoffed Sherlock. “Not very practical in our line of work, is it? I abhor all the traditional trappings of marriage.”

“But?” asked John with an amused smile.

Sherlock fiddled with the hem of his coat, his ears aglow and his cheeks tinged red. “But it would be ... nice to ... you know, have something ...”

John raised an eyebrow. “Official? Permanent? Reassuring?”

Sherlock swallowed, which made John feel slightly bad about teasing him. Apparently the matter ran much deeper than he had assumed. “Yes. That. All of it, in fact.”

Smiling gently, John pulled him closer and kissed his temple. “Truth is, you’re a big soppy romantic.”

Sherlock extricated himself from the embrace and gazed at John with a grave, even stern expression. “No, John, I’m a realist, and I’m trying to learn from past mistakes. I thought I had to give you up once before in order to protect you and it didn’t work. Well, the protection did, obviously, but not the giving up. And I hurt you in the process, perhaps even more than a sniper’s bullet would have done. I’m not doing that again. Moreover you are the first and likely only person who not only never threatened not to leave, but who actually seems to be enjoying my company and even my attempts at ... well, yes, all right, romantic entanglement. So I’d be a complete fool to let you go again, wouldn’t I?”

John stared at him. He knew he shouldn’t laugh because there was a darker implication and sad truth behind Sherlock’s words, but he couldn’t prevent a broad smile stealing over his features. “So you’re trying to bind me to you legally because I’m the most convenient option?”

“No, John, because you’re the only option, and always have been. How did you so aptly call it? ‘Love of my fucking life’. You are, pretty much. But we don’t have to get married right away, of course, unless you are about to be hospitalised and don’t want your sister as your next of kin make decisions about your health; or unless you consider acquiring a National Trust membership because I already have a lifetime one and should we ever do get married, it could simply be modified to include my spouse.”

John stared at him as he sat in his ridiculous coat with his naked legs and feet poking out from under it, his expression serious on his flushed face under a mop of unruly curls, and burst out laughing. Immediately, Sherlock glared at him.

“What?” he asked haughtily.

“Oh my God,” wheezed John, biting into the sleeve of his jumper to stifle his giggles.

Sherlock grew increasingly irritated. “What is it, John? What did I say?”

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John managed before he was overcome by laughter again.

“This is getting ridiculous,” proclaimed Sherlock, making to stand.

Fighting for breath, John grabbed his sleeve and pulled him down again. “Sorry, sorry, Sherlock. I didn’t mean to make fun of you. But this must have been the weirdest proposal in the history of mankind.”

Sherlock sniffed, looking embarrassed. “How would you know? According to my knowledge, you’ve never been proposed to before, nor done the thing yourself. And what was weird about it? I was just describing some advantages of getting married which you should consider.” A thought struck him. “Was it lacking the romantic aspect? Kneeling and all that?”

John shook his head, still slightly out of breath. “No, it wasn’t. Must have been the most romantic thing you’ve said to me. I mean, you’re willing to share your lifetime membership of the National Trust with me. It doesn’t get more romantic than that, does it?”

Apparently understanding the absurdity of his statement, Sherlock began to smile. “I have one of English Heritage, too. Gift from my Holmes grandparents when I turned ten, and the only convenient thing they ever gave me. Very useful for getting free or even priority access to their properties. Comes in very handy for casework.”

“Well, now that you mention it, that definitely tips the scales in your favour,” said John, smiling as well. “I’m not sure I’d have taken you for the NT membership alone, but if you add English Heritage, that does sound like good enough value to compensate for the occasional kitchen disaster.”

Sobering up, he reached out and ran a hand down Sherlock’s cheek. “You impossible man. What have I done to deserve you?”

Sherlock gazed at him solemnly, leaning slightly into his touch as was his wont. “You didn’t tell me to piss off after I’d deduced you during our first taxi ride.”

“No, I didn’t.” John gave a soft laugh. “We really should invite Mike over one of these days, or at least buy him a large bottle of really good whisky.” With that, he leaned in and kissed Sherlock gently, his heart leaping when he felt Sherlock accept the kiss with a sigh and return it softly.

After a few minutes of quiet, light kissing, he felt a shiver run through Sherlock’s body. Goosebumps were visible on the exposed skin of his thigh. “Excitement, or cold?” enquired John, nodding at his leg.

“Cold, actually,” apologised Sherlock, blushing. “Doesn’t mean that I am not excited to kiss you. But the fire’s died down completely now because your briquet didn’t really keep it going, and warm as the Belstaff and your touch and company are, they don’t exactly reach down all the way to my feet.”

“In that case, you’d better put on the socks I brought you, and then it’s back to bed. My shoulder is twinging again, and I could definitely do with more sleep. I just need the loo, and a quick brush of teeth.”

Sherlock rumbled an affirmative, unfolded and stretched. While he was donning the socks, John took the cup into the kitchen and rinsed it. They took turns in the bathroom. John had already settled down on their bedstead and was checking his watch (it was almost two, meaning they hadn’t slept long before Sherlock’s nightmare had woken them) when Sherlock slipped under the blankets next to him, his stockinged feet rubbing against John’s. Sneaking his arms round John, he tugged at him until he half lay on top of Sherlock, his head resting on his chest.

“A light massage should help ease the tension in your shoulder and back,” announced Sherlock, rubbing his hands together to warm them and then slipping them under John’s t-shirt. John drew in a sharp breath when Sherlock started to knead his shoulder, but soon felt the pain lessen. He sighed contentedly.

“Good?” asked Sherlock.

“Hmmm. Don’t stop. Where did you learn that? Did you need it for a past case?”

“No. I looked it up online in case your shoulder required it.”

John chuckled, recalling their conversation in the bunker and the other things Sherlock was planning to look up. “Thank you,” he said, turning serious as once again he noticed how much Sherlock actually cared, and how important John seemed to have become to the self-proclaimed sociopath. John recalled their conversation in the living room and Sherlock’s attempts to push him away to save himself from future hurt.

“Stop thinking, John,” Sherlock reminded him. “It makes you tense up again.”

“Sorry. I think I’ll switch off my brain and the rest of my consciousness now and go to sleep. Feel free to keep doing that.”

“I think I shall. Good night, John. Kick me out of the bed should the nightmare return.”

“I will. Same goes for you if I have one. Good night, Sherlock.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

When John woke next, he could barely remember his dreams. Something weird about dogs and digging were the only things he recalled. Blueish twilight filled the room when he opened his eyes. He had shifted onto his right side during the night. Something heavy lay over his ribs which turned out to be Sherlock’s left arm. The rest of the consulting detective had attached itself to John’s back and was spooning him closely. He could feel the flutter of Sherlock’s breath against the nape of his neck which tickled in a very pleasant way. Overall he felt pleasantly warm and relaxed – as long as he didn’t move, he supposed.

For the moment, this was exactly what John had in mind: staying put and not moving. Judging by his deep, steady breathing, Sherlock was still asleep. John longed to turn and look at him. He had seen him sleeping before, of course, but he felt he could never get enough of the sight of Sherlock at his most unguarded and human.

Presently, Sherlock sighed and snuffled a little, the arm draped over John’s torso tightening in an almost possessive manner. John felt his ribs and shoulder give a slight twinge. Sherlock’s arm relaxed again. As he lay in his friend’s warm embrace, John became aware how close indeed they were. He could feel Sherlock’s steady heartbeat through the fabric of their t-shirts and the rise and fall of his chest. One of the detective’s naked legs had found its way over John’s, the hairs tickling against John’s own where the leg of his pyjama bottoms had ridden up almost to his knee. The large hand splayed over his chest was warm and rubbed pleasantly against his sternum whenever he drew breath. It was comfortable and intimate, and, beginning from the moment John started to catalogue the many points of contact, rather arousing.

Their conversation in the bunker came to mind as soon as awareness of the new development seeped through his still sleep-sluggish brain, which didn’t improve his situation but rather caused an averse reaction. He tried to distract himself by thinking about the case, attempting to figure out what had bothered him about it the previous evening and to recapture the vague idea he’d had of having picked up some vital information but not been able to place it. The strategy didn’t help, though. Whenever he forced himself to think about the case, the image of Sherlock saying something brilliant came up, and the rush of heat into John’s nether regions increased.

He sighed. He didn’t want to get up and escape into the bathroom to deal with his predicament because he didn’t want to wake Sherlock who was sleeping so peacefully. Moreover he didn’t fancy moving at all, because it was bound to be uncomfortable and potentially painful. Still, the situation was unlikely going to resolve itself. He tried to relax, breathing deeply and steadily. Sherlock’s hand twitched and slid a little lower to come to rest over his belly, which definitely didn’t improve matters.

“Try thinking about Mycroft,” a sleep-roughened voice rumbled into John’s ear which caused him to freeze in shock. Against the back of his neck, he felt Sherlock grin as he burrowed his nose into the hairs at John’s nape. “Helps me in most of these cases, even the more persistent ones.”

John snorted, despite feeling his ears heat in embarrassment. “Thanks. I might actually try that.”

Sherlock chuckled softly which sent another spike of arousal through John. He drew in a sharp breath and squeezed his eyes shut, attempting to imagine Sherlock’s brother at his most obnoxious. It didn’t help in the slightest, certainly not as long as he could feel Sherlock’s body shake faintly as he hummed and laughed. Sherlock seemed to have noticed the effect his activities had on John, because his movement stilled and the hand on John’s belly tensed ever so slightly. John felt him raise his head, perhaps to be able to look at his face.

“Alternatively,” he suggested in a low, seductive and yet somewhat tentative voice, “I could lend you a hand to resolve your … predicament.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The illustration for this chapter bears the title "[Aftermath](http://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/106839866683/aftermath-illustration-for-chapter-17-of-my)":


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the wait. Hope the chapter makes up for it. You may have noticed the two new tags I added. Just saying ;)

John felt another wave of arousal rush through him at the announcement, coupled with a healthy dose of shocked surprise and disbelief. He let out a small laugh. Surely, Sherlock was teasing him. Surely, he wasn’t really offering. Or was he? His hand hadn’t moved from John’s belly, only relaxed slightly again and was now resting loosely on top of his t-shirt. He seemed to be watching John still as if waiting for a reply. John swallowed. Time to test the waters.

“What a kind, selfless offer, Sherlock,” he commented wryly, debating whether to turn his head to gaze at Sherlock.

Sherlock made a strange, almost hurt sound. “You think I am teasing you, that I’m not serious.” John noted the absence of a questioning inflection which made him turn, wincing when his shoulder and neck muscles complained at the movement. Sherlock’s face was hovering next to his, his expression calm but pensive, the latter evidenced by his narrowed lips and the frown lines on his forehead.

“Were you? Teasing me, I mean?” asked John with genuine interest.

“No, I wasn’t,” replied Sherlock in a clipped voice, colour rising to his cheeks. He tried to look haughty and unaffected and failed. “Although I begin to believe that I should have, given your reaction. I take it the offer was a bit not good?” he then asked, obviously trying to hide both his insecurity and his mounting embarrassment. John didn’t know whether it was wishful thinking on his part, but a trace of disappointment seemed to be swinging in Sherlock’s mood, too.

John closed his eyes for a moment, drawing a steadying breath. Oh shit. This was going to raise awkwardness to new levels. It wasn’t that he hadn’t thought about it. He had, increasingly often in recent weeks. Hell, he’d wanked to thoughts of his flatmate/best friend/soulmate/whatever-Sherlock-was touching him. He wanted it, wanted to be intimate with him, to make love to him and receive his touches in return. Their recent talks about sex had only increased his desire. But despite their emotional intimacy and codependency, even despite the tender, careful and slightly awkward ventures into physical territory in the past weeks and their more graphic talks about certain activities, the thought of actual sex with Sherlock had always seemed more hypothetical than anything likely to happen in the near future. And now here they were, with Sherlock offering, in all seriousness, to stick his hand into John’s pyjama bottoms to get him off.

Feeling Sherlock draw back slightly, his hand twitching before it shifted towards John’s chest again, John knew that he owed Sherlock an answer, and a plain, honest one at that. Making fun of the situation to battle awkwardness with humour like they had done so often in the past certainly had its place, but this was not it. Christ, the man was extremely inexperienced when it came to these things, and as tempting it was to tease and needle him, John knew it would be inappropriate and cruel to do so now, when Sherlock had likely taken ages of deliberation to ready himself for the offer and the implications it held.

So Sherlock deemed himself ready, but did John feel likewise? _Time for a bit of introspection_ _,_ he thought. But not too much. Sherlock was waiting for an answer. Did he really want this? Yes. Did he want it now? Well, creepy, unpleasant thoughts of Mycroft hadn’t exactly helped matters. Perhaps the location and timing weren’t ideal, but if they were going to wait for the ideal moment, they were going to be old and grey before that presented itself, if ever it did. So any objections against here and now? Honestly ... no. Any against whether to do it at all? Fuck it, no. Well, then.

Licking his lips, John looked up at Sherlock again. His expression had darkened, he seemed disappointed and unhappy, readying himself for another rejection. John could feel the tension in the other’s body where it touched his. Sherlock appeared prepared to draw back entirely, his defences mounting.

John caught Sherlock’s hand as he was about to lift it off his chest and pressed it gently against his sternum, caressing the long fingers with his own. “No, Sherlock, it was good. Your offer, I mean.” He swallowed, drawing a deep breath and licking his lips again. “A bit unexpected, though.”

Sherlock frowned at him, looking entirely out of his depth which would have been endearing but for the realisation that Sherlock didn’t have anything to compare this situation with, no prior relationship knowledge or sexual experience to fall back on, apart from what he had read somewhere or witnessed in other couples, and his botched and traumatising attempt at seduction at Monte Carlo. And yet here he was trying to accommodate John’s needs, was attempting to ‘get things right’, to provide his partner with a good, satisfying experience.

“Why unexpected?” Sherlock gave voice to his glaring gap of knowledge and resulting insecurity. “We talked about this only yesterday. In a way, we got engaged last night, if you really meant what you said about not wanting to leave me ever again. We’ve professed our mutual attraction, even love. Wouldn’t this be the logical progression of our relationship?”

A thought seemed to strike him. “Or are you concerned about Emma overhearing you?”

“Emma?” asked John, momentarily confused until he recalled last night’s encounter in the kitchen and the girl’s remark about Sherlock’s nightly noises. “Um, no, actually I wasn’t worried about her.”

“But you _are_ worried, aren’t you?” stated Sherlock, making to distance himself from John yet again. John held on to his hand more tightly.

“No,” he said earnestly, manoeuvring their joined hands from under the blanket, raising them to his lips and kissing Sherlock’s knuckles lightly.

Gazing at Sherlock steadily, he said, “No, Sherlock, I’m not worried. I’m touched and excited. In fact, I’m even more turned on than I was before, as I’m sure you can read in my body’s reactions to both your proximity and the implications of your offer. Fact is, though, that I’m fucking nervous, too. Bit scared, even.”

Sherlock frowned at him again. “Why? This would hardly be your first time, not counting the fact that I am a man. Is that it? Are you worried about the gay thing? Or do you believe that my lack of experience might result in an unsatisfying one for you?”

John couldn’t help laughing softly. “Sherlock, for the record, I stopped worrying about the ‘gay thing’ ages ago. You outed us to the entire world by kissing me at Bart’s in front of an audience who helpfully took a photo which then went bleeding viral. I give a shit about labels now. If the world wants to believe I’m gay, or turned gay for you, they’re welcome. People may think that I’m from outer space, Bilbo Baggins’ brother or the Queen’s long lost grandson for all that I care. I don’t mind that you’re a bloke, and I don’t mind that you haven’t done this before. You said you’ve done your research, and I totally believe you. In fact, I still get highly suspicious ads from Google whenever I use the internet on my laptop, so thanks for that.” Sherlock had the decency to look slightly guilty. John squeezed his hand and went on in a more serious tone.

“I do care that you’re my best friend and the most important person in my life. It just seems a big step, that’s all.” He cocked his head thoughtfully. “Actually, I thought you’d be more nervous about this whole thing.”

Now Sherlock smiled shyly. “I’m just a better actor than you,” he admitted, casting down his eyes briefly before looking at John again through his lashes.

John laughed. “That you are,” he said, and despite the pain he raised his head and kissed Sherlock tenderly, before settling back on the pillow again.

“Well, if your offer still stands,” he released Sherlock’s hand to breathe in deeply again and wet his lips once more, “please, go ahead. I’d really appreciate a ‘helping hand’. And as for not bothering Emma with ‘gross noises’, well, I guess I can always bite into my pillow should the need arise.”

Sherlock stared at him, the flush adorning his cheeks more prominent now, his pupils delated and his breathing heavier than before. He swallowed thickly. He looked both excited and deeply nervous, even scared, as if only now the implications of John’s invitation hit home and he understood what he was about to do. _Internet research clearly doesn’t cover everything_ , John thought, despite not harbouring any fears that Sherlock might cock this up. There wasn’t much he could do wrong, as aroused as John was.

Still, Sherlock’s confidence and swagger seemed to have received a blow. “There may be no need for that,” he admitted, casting down his eyes. “The pillow, I mean. You may not like what I do. I should warn you that this is going to be incredibly experimental.”

“Fine with me,” said John, settling down with his back to Sherlock again and snuggling back into the warm, lanky body behind him, patting the hand on his chest. “Go ahead, experiment away. I know you thrive on that, mad scientist that you are. Just do to me what you like to do to yourself when you ... you know ... have some alone time. I’m sure it’ll be all right.”

Sherlock made another indescribable sound. John smiled. God, this was terribly awkward, and terribly sweet at the same time. Then again, going by the way he and Sherlock had been conducting their relationship so far, he could not imagine them moving into sexual territory any other way.

Still, Sherlock seemed to have lost all bravado, now that things were truly about to proceed. His hand was still resting loosely on John’s chest, the fingers again twitching slightly. To John it almost felt as if he was typing morse code, although he did not recognise any letters. Perhaps Sherlock was going through the motions of a piece for the violin, maybe to calm himself. He was breathing shallowly and too quickly. John could feel his rapid heartbeat and increased body temperature through the fabric of their t-shirts. He remembered how nervous he had been during his first time. He reached up to stroke Sherlock’s hand again.

“There’s no pressure whatsoever, Sherlock,” he murmured in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. “I’m so keyed up that you can’t really go wrong, I think. I doubt I’ll last long, whatever you do. Moreover,” he turned his head slightly again and gave Sherlock a warm smile, “I’m sure you can easily deduce what I enjoy once you’ve started.”

He felt Sherlock tense behind him, and even without looking up he was sure that the other’s eyes were boring into him with one of his intense stares. Then Sherlock relaxed and let out a long breath, accompanied by his trademark “Oh,” which usually indicated a particularly striking revelation or mental leap.

“You are brilliant, John,” he murmured, and John thought he could hear the smile in his low rumble.

“Yep, I — oh God.” John’s capacity for speech became limited or rather severely restricted the instant Sherlock leaned in closely and began to nose at and then lick the pulse-point behind John’s ear.

John let out a shuddery breath, his eyes closing of their own volition. Even though Sherlock had barely touched him, John’s body seemed to be recalling how long it had gone without any intimate touch by another person, and also how long it had yearned for Sherlock to do the honours. Hours of sexual fantasies involving John’s flatmate were about to become reality, and the realisation both excited and frightened John. But then, he had always been a risk-taker, and this was sending thrills all over his body. John exhaled again, which to his ears sounded suspiciously like a moan, and firmly told his brain to shut up now and stop worrying, and to simply enjoy the ride.

Sherlock seemed to sense his flicker of nerves because the lips which had been peppering John’s neck and jawline with small kisses stilled and lifted from John’s skin. “All right?” he asked, his voice a deep, husky rumble.

“God, yes,” sighed John. “It’s just ...,” he swallowed, “it’s just been a while, and I’ve been imagining this or similar activities for quite some time.”

Sherlock chuckled, leaning in for an experimental swipe of his tongue along John’s jaw which made John squirm and shudder and laugh softly while causing another rush of blood into his nether regions.

“Similar activities, John?” teased Sherlock. “Could you perhaps be more specific? Do you perchance mean things like this?” Another swipe of tongue, along his throat this time. “Or this?” Sherlock leaned in closer to first lick then suck then nibble on John’s earlobe. “Or might you be referring to this?” Sherlock’s large hand slid up to John’s chest to very lightly graze over his left nipple through the fabric of the t-shirt.

John let out a moan. “Fuck yes, all of it,” he breathed. “Don’t stop.”

He felt Sherlock smile as the other leaned in again to return his attention to his throat. “Good,” he rumbled.

There was a moment of hesitation or deliberation, before Sherlock slipped a cautious, questing hand under John’s t-shirt to continue his exploration of John’s chest. And exploration it was: slow, methodical, seemingly cataloguing every hair, mole, scar and particularly the taut, sensitive skin of his nipples while Sherlock was alternatively licking, sucking on or kissing John’s throat and jaw and nape.

If this weren’t enough, Sherlock’s activities were accompanied by a low, rumbling hum, much like the purr he emitted sometimes when particularly content or mentally engaged, like when he was relaxed and happily splayed out over the couch and his flatmate, and John was playing with his hair. Now he appeared particularly content and stimulated, too. As much as he was still capable of rational thought and observation while being reduced to mere emotional and hormonal jelly by Sherlock’s careful ministrations, John thought he felt him pause briefly at regular intervals, sometimes even disengaging his mouth and lifting his head as if to study John’s reactions and commit them to memory. John wondered whether he was constructing a new extension to the ‘John Wing’ of his mind-palace, and he let out a giddy, happy laugh at the thought.

Sherlock stilled the hand which had been on its stealthy way towards the waistband of John’s pyjama bottoms. He made a questioning sound. “Anything funny?” he asked, not quite hiding his insecurity.

John laughed again and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Sherlock,” he breathed, “I didn’t mean to take you out of it. I just recalled what you told me about where you store information about me, and I wondering whether my wing was going to be extended now.”

There was a sharp intake of breath and a stiffening of the body behind him, and then Sherlock laughed, warmly and happily. He planted a smacking kiss on John’s cheek and slinging his arm round his middle, squeezed him hard enough to cause John’s bruised ribs to protest. “Oh, definitely. I think I’ll finally have cause to add a bedroom.”

John squinted at him from the corner of his eyes, taking in a flushed face and dark, dark eyes. “Finally?” he enquired softly.

Sherlock released him, leaning in to kiss his lips gently. “Finally,” he replied gravely. Returning his hand to John’s middle, he lightly tugged at the drawstring of the trousers. “Want me to proceed?” he then asked, tentative and adorably shy once more, his voice and indeed his entire body quivering with half-suppressed nerves and excitement.

John laughed. Reaching out he caught Sherlock’s slender fingers in his left hand. After caressing them briefly, he deftly tugged at the hand to place it where he had been yearning to feel it ever since he woke.

Sherlock let out a long, shuddering sigh that shook his entire body. “John,” he breathed, his voice full of awe. John felt him swallow convulsively, and wished he could see his expression. Sherlock seemed overcome with emotion, his body still and tense, he hand resting unmovingly over John’s crotch. For a brief instance John wondered with a stab of embarrassment if perhaps Sherlock might be put off by the wet stain on his pyjama bottoms where precome had begun to leak through the fabric, but then he recalled that this was the man who happily stored severed thumbs in their fridge and microwaved human eyeballs, and who’d wade through London’s sewers to look for evidence. Sherlock might be many things, but he certainly wasn’t squeamish when it came to bodily fluids, despite referring to ejaculate as messy, and to blow-jobs as unhygienic. Suppressing another giggle which he was sure would have further irritated Sherlock, he quietly asked, “All right?” instead.

Sherlock drew another ragged breath, swallowed once more and nodded. “Yes,” he murmured. “It’s just ...,” he let out a breathy, somewhat embarrassed laugh, “I never imagined, never dared hope that anybody would want me to touch them that way. It seems unreal to me, all of this.”

“Jesus, Sherlock,” sighed John. “What bloody idiots you must have been around most of your life. But rest assured – as surely you can feel right now – that I very, very much want you to touch me ‘that way’. In fact, if you don’t begin to move that shapely hand of yours any time soon, I’m afraid I’ll either burst or have a stroke or a heart-attack. There’s only so much teasing and bloody foreplay a man can endure, you know.”

“Actually, I don’t think there is medical evidence that delayed orgasms cause—”

“Sherlock, for God’s sake, shut the fuck up and get me off before I have to do it myself.”

A surprised gasp sounded from Sherlock at this brisk command. “Is this an order, captain?” he asked. John couldn’t be sure whether the remark was accompanied by a smirk, but he thought he could hear it.

“Yes it is, damn it.”

Sherlock’s fingers twitched, then tightened, so much so that John let out a groan. “Well, in that case ...,” he muttered and latched on to John’s earlobe again while his hand slipped into John’s trousers with one swift and sure movement.

 

**- <o>-**

 

It hadn’t been a stroke, but John was rather convinced that his brain had blacked out for a moment. Now it slowly came back online while the last aftershocks were racing through his body. He felt heavy and utterly relaxed but for his left hand that was still grabbing the duvet convulsively. Not even his injuries from the previous day were bothering him, but he knew he was going to be feeling them again later, and more severely, too, after all the tensing and pushing into Sherlock’s hand. With a stab of alarm he realised that he had no recollection of whether he had cried out or not.

He only recalled that it hadn’t taken long to reach his climax, and no wonder that, given his state of arousal. After a few slight, experimental touches and strokes of his hand, Sherlock, seemingly understanding John’s desperation at that point, had simply grabbed him more tightly while wriggling up his right hand from where it had rested under John’s body to tweak and rub at his nipples under his t-shirt again, and after a few more strokes and pulls and pushes from John the latter had come, and hadn’t stopped coming for a while.

Right, he reasoned, likely he had cried out. He’d never been particularly vocal in bed, but this just now had been special. It was to be hoped that Emma had already risen and was in the bathroom or the kitchen, out of earshot. If not ... well, this was potentially going to be awkward.

“I doubt our activity has gone unnoticed,” Sherlock commented dryly if somewhat breathily into John’s ear. “Or will go unnoticed, rather. You’ve made rather a mess of your pyjama bottoms and the linens.”

“Sorry,” murmured John, despite not feeling sorry at all. “But you’re to blame as well,” he added with mock accusation.

Whatever awkwardness might arise with Katie about the sheet situation, what had led to it had definitely been worth it. Moreover, he doubted their host was even going to mention it, soiled linens or no. And as for potential shouting or crying out … well, perhaps he could pretend he’d also had a nightmare. Sherlock had held him throughout his orgasm, that much he remembered. He was still lying on his side behind John, his left hand extended over the blanket.

John wriggled out of the wet spot and carefully turned onto his back, gazing at Sherlock who scoffed at his words while looking mightily pleased with himself. He was studying his hand which still bore traces of its recent occupation. Presently, he sniffed it. Before John could prevent it or even utter a word of warning, he even stabbed at it briefly with his tongue. John groaned. His last test had been a while ago when he’d applied for a position at the new surgery, and despite his lack of partnered sex since, he’d have preferred to be tested again before they got intimate, just to make sure he wouldn’t be passing anything on to Sherlock.

“Interesting,” muttered Sherlock, before wiping his hand on John’s t-shirt.

“Oi,” protested John, but without any ire. Sherlock only cocked an eyebrow in challenge and grinned, and John couldn’t contain the laughter bubbling up in him. Good God, he’d just had sex with Sherlock Holmes, his best friend, and it had been sweet and awkward and a bit clumsy and touching and altogether special and spectacular. Now Sherlock was watching him with a peculiar expression which John could only describe as fond. There was a small trace of insecurity lingering in the faint frown lines on his forehead, but his eyes were large and gentle, and he was smiling. “You liked it, then,” he concluded, his words not quite a question.

Reaching up, John ran a hand along his jaw, feeling the rasp of faint stubble, before leaning forward and kissing him tenderly. “Excellent deduction, my brilliant detective,” he murmured when he drew back. “Thank you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s smile broadened until he was positively preening under John’s gaze. “Good. There are a few things I’d like to try next time. I’m glad it was satisfactory, given my inexperience and the added difficulty of having to use my left hand instead of my right.”

John chuckled at this, while the mention of ‘next time’ sent a bolt of heat through his body. “Gosh, I’m beginning to fear what you might be able to do with more experience and your dominant hand when your other one has been so … proficient already.”

Sherlock shook his head. “As you said,” he replied with uncharacteristic modesty, “you were already highly aroused when I started. I could have used my foot or leg and it would still have worked. Not much skill involved in this. Still, I guess it’s rather flattering to know that you obviously desire me so much, unless I was just a convenient object to rub against. I meant what I said earlier. It’s a novel experience for me, being wanted like this.”

“A good one, though?” enquired John around a throat that felt slightly constricted at the other’s quiet confession, snuggling closer against Sherlock’s body.

Sherlock swallowed and sighed. “Yes,” he admitted. “Very.”

John kissed his forehead. “Good.” Scooting even closer to Sherlock, he stilled. “Speaking of desire, Sherlock ...,” he began.

Sherlock caught his drift. Colour crept up his cheeks. “Oh, never mind that. Just ignore it. It’s fine.”

“‘Fine’ is currently poking me in the thigh.”

“Sorry. It’ll take a while to go away. But if it bothers you …,” Sherlock made to shift onto his back and increase the distance between them, but John held him back gently.

“I’d very much like to return the favour, you know,” John told him earnestly.

Sherlock gave him a long, grave look, then ducked his head and bit his lip, worrying his bottom one with his teeth. He swallowed, then raised his eyes to return John’s steady gaze. “I know,” he murmured. “And I appreciate your offer, I really do. But right now ...” He sighed and wriggling free of John, did flop onto his back, extending his arms stiffly along his sides. John thought he looked both exasperated at himself as well as strangely sad. “There is just so much going on in my head. So many new impressions, new data that needs to be catalogued and stored away. There is so much to think about, John, that I don’t believe I could ... I doubt I’d enjoy it, now. I’d be distracted. I’d be overwhelmed. I ...,” he let out a long breath. “I’m sorry, John. It’s not about you, you know that. I do want you, very much so. Just not … right now, I guess.”

John reached up to brush a curl from his forehead. “Yes, I know, Sherlock. And I understand.”

Sherlock bit his lip again, looking incredibly young and vulnerable. “That rather spoiled the mood.”

John laughed softly. Propping himself up on his left arm (gasping slightly because of the stab of pain in his shoulder), he leaned in and kissed Sherlock’s lips. “No, it didn’t. It’s fine, Sherlock. Just remember that if you feel like you want to take me up on my offer, you’ll just have to say.”

Sherlock smiled warmly at this. “I won’t forget,” he promised. “For now, could I request some light cuddling?” he then asked. “It helps me think, and you look like you’re about to fall asleep again after your exertion.”

John giggled, and extended his arm for Sherlock to settle his head on his chest, carefully navigating his bruised shoulder and ribs. Now that the rush of adrenaline and endorphins was receding, he was indeed beginning to feel drowsy. Given that it was still early, he had no qualms about indulging in a brief nap, especially if this nap included his arms full of a cuddly, aroused but still strangely relaxed consulting detective. In fact, John marvelled at Sherlock’s willpower and self-discipline. It he were in a similar state of arousal, he’d absconded to the bathroom a while ago to deal with it. But Sherlock seemed happy to just lie close to him, breathing in his scent.

John’s heart gave a leap and suddenly felt light as a feather as he considered his recent experience yet again. He’d had sex with Sherlock, or rather and even more importantly, Sherlock had made love to him. It sounded cheesy and old-fashioned, but there really was no other word for it. Carefully, selflessly, Sherlock had seen to his needs, and had shown himself to be gentle and considerate, shy and daring at the same time, and altogether caring, loving – all those things many people would never associate with him. John, who prided himself in knowing him better than they, thought that in fact _he_ shouldn’t be so surprised, but it had still felt novel to experience through his body how much indeed Sherlock cared. All the fears and worries John – and Sherlock, too – had harboured for so long had been groundless. It worked, their brand of intimacy, awkward and experimental though it was at this stage. John knew that it would get better once they’d become more attuned to each other’s needs. Like in so many other things, they clicked in bed. Not just John had enjoyed their tryst, but apparently so had Sherlock, his reluctance to let himself be touched aside.

“You impossible, incredible man, you,” he murmured into the mob of dark curls once it had settled comfortably on his chest and he was able to feel Sherlock’s steady breaths through the thin (and still partially moist) fabric of his t-shirt. The breaths turned into a low chuckle at his words.

“Do go on, John.”

“Rather keen on praise, aren’t you?”

“Well, if it’s so well merited ...”

John laughed happily. “Show off,” he scolded. He sighed, rubbing Sherlock’s shoulders and back affectionately before stroking his hair, his hand wandering towards Sherlock’s nape and the curl that lived there to entice John to want to touch or kiss it.

Sherlock purred softly, but raised his head fractionally from John’s chest when John’s fingers brushed over his skin. “Better not proceed, John,” he cautioned. “As much as I enjoy it, right now it’s rather counterproductive to my mental capacities.”

“All the blood getting redirected elsewhere, eh?” enquired John teasingly.

Sherlock made an exasperated sound. “Quite, yes. It’s hugely distracting, bordering on uncomfortable. And I don’t want to leave for the bathroom to deal with ... things. It’s nice and warm here, and I like your smell.”

“Smell? Really? Well, I guess I do need a shower. I’m a bit ... sticky.”

“Scent, if you prefer. And I don’t mind the stickiness. It’s less off-putting than I anticipated. The taste isn’t altogether bad, either, although I would assume that it varies in accordance with your diet. To determine what factors into it, I may be open for future experimentation. For science.”

John let out a huffy laugh, squeezing the other’s shoulders briefly. “Oh God, Sherlock, are you planning to do a spreadsheet to document my bodily functions?”

Sherlock shrugged. “It’s not a spreadsheet per se. Nothing on paper or in an Excel file. It’s all up here, you see.” He tapped his temple lightly.

John squinted at him, trying to see his face to gauge whether he was making fun of him, but it was hidden by the curls.

“How big exactly is this John Wing in that palace of yours?”

Through his t-shirt, he felt the corners of Sherlock’s mouth quirk upwards. “About twice the size of St. Paul’s including its crypt and parts of its surroundings. But there are bits and pieces of you spread all over the entire structure. I told you, you’ve become integral to the building. Taking you away would make it unstable, threatening collapse.”

“Well, in that case I’ll have to stay put, won’t I,” muttered John round a yawn.

“You’d better,” returned Sherlock softly and kissed his chest.

 

**- <o>-**

 

John woke to sunlight flooding the room, and to an empty space next to him. Angling for his watch, he was surprised to find that it was only twenty past nine, meaning he had slept little more than an hour. He stretched carefully, smiling when he felt the residue of their early morning activities in his trousers. He let out a happy laugh, which, however, turned into a groan when he sat up. His shoulder twinged, as did his ribs, and the less said about his thighs, the better.

“It gets better once you start moving about,” announced Sherlock as he stepped through the door. He was already dressed, again wearing the jeans but having traded the turtle-neck jumper for his habitual shirt (a light grey one today which again complimented his eyes) and navy suit jacket. John noticed that he was also walking a bit stiffly as he rounded the sofa to check his mobile that was still plugged in to charge.

With clenched teeth and a sigh, John heaved himself to his feet and began to look for fresh underwear. “Have you spoken with Katie this morning?” he enquired. “Any news?”

“She is still out, likely to take Emma to school,” replied Sherlock, frowning at his phone. “Lestrade texted, however, and there’s an email from DI Gregson.”

John stepped over to him, resisting the urge to slip an arm round his waist as he stood close enough to peer at the mobile’s screen. Sherlock smelled faintly of toothpaste and aftershave. He looked at John briefly, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

John marvelled how remarkably normal and un-awkward they were being, after what should have been a monumental shift in their relationship. But perhaps, he reasoned, the monumental shifts had taken place long before when the foundations for what they had now had been laid. Physical intimacy, and now sex, were in fact no more than a further development. He wasn’t going to consider it a logical conclusion because when he thought about it, he could still imagine carrying on with Sherlock the way they had before they became lovers – lovers, wow, now this _did_ sound novel if put so blandly – without feeling that he was missing out on something (okay, a little, perhaps).

“Anything interesting?” asked John, brushing his shoulder against Sherlock’s at which the other’s smile broadened briefly.

“Apparently they’ve had some success finding out more about our fugitive grave-robber.”

“Sommersby?”

“Yes. The DNA-sample matched what they have on record. He was already registered for fraught and minor theft. He changed his appearance considerably since his photographs were last taken at a police investigation, but the face-recognition still worked.”

Sherlock held his mobile so John could see the display. It showed a before-after shot of the suspect. The man had lost considerable weight, had shortened and dyed his hair and apparently wore contact lenses now instead of glasses, or had undergone eye-surgery. He’d gotten rid of his short beard, too, making him look older, for some reason, perhaps because his face seemed more stern without it.

“His real name is Mark Rutherford,” explained Sherlock. “He originally read history and archaeology at Birmingham, then attempted a PhD at Cardiff University.”

“Attempted? So he isn’t a real doctor?”

“Well, he got his PhD, but he didn’t write the thesis himself, nor did he conduct the studies it documents. According to the file Gregson just sent – good thinking on his part, actually, to send it to me, too, not just to Suffolk Constabulary – there was a bit of a scandal a few years ago involving a thesis written in fact by one of Rutherford’s students which he subsequently claimed to have penned himself. The student found herself being exmatriculated over a shady financial matter to shut her up. The examination board very purposefully didn’t ask too closely about the origins of said thesis. Interestingly, they’d all received nice presents or academical favours. The fraud was discovered, however, and Rutherford was stripped of his title and made to leave his post. He seems to have spent some years abroad afterwards, licking his wounds and making contact with people like Lydia Montville before he resurfaced as Dr. Martin Sommersby about two years ago, acclaimed guest lecturer and freelance archaeologist with a number of high profile excavations and publications under his belt. Interestingly, there was an academic of the same surname in the early 1930s whose identity and credentials Rutherford appears to have acquired. Apparently Donovan gave a vital clue concerning this.”

“How so? Had she heard of him?”

Sherlock shook his head, smiling. “No, but his assumed name set her alarm bells ringing. To be honest, I’m a little annoyed that I didn’t make the connection myself. But there is always something.”

“What’s so strange about the name, then?” John wanted to know.

Sherlock gave him what John had long ago labelled as ‘the look’. Usually it annoyed him, but now he just shook his head with a fond smile. “Go on, what did Sally deduce before you did?”

“Not deduce, she just connected the dots more quickly.”

“Sherlock,” John warned, and Sherlock heaved a dramatic sigh.

“Well, there appears to be a film about a man returning from the American Civil War and assuming the identity of a farmer, successfully fooling the man’s wife and the local community with his astounding knowledge about their personal lives.”

“Oh, right, I think I know that one. It’s called _Sommersby_ , isn’t it? With Jodie Foster and Richard Gere. I think I watched it with Sarah once. Yeah, I remember it now. I feared I’d be in for one of those chick flicks because of Gere and everything, but actually the film’s quite good. Very atmospheric.”

“I haven’t seen it myself,” admitted Sherlock, “but there is a French film the American one apparently borrows from. The French version in turn is based on a historical court case from the 16th century that is also concerned with assumed identity and fraud, although in both cases the fraudster seems to have actually improved the lives of his family and members of the community. I studied the case, and I even watched the film back at university. I remember liking the music and the authentic portrayal of rural pre-Saint Barthélemy Massacre France. I recall studying some other very interesting old cases from about the same period. Did you know there was a law in France in the 15th and 16th century that subjected animals to the same civil laws and penalties as humans, resulting in them having lawyers and trials?”

John shook his head, grinning about Sherlock’s habitual loop off topic. “Fascinating, Sherlock. But about Sommersby, I don’t know about the French film,” mused John, “but in the American version the fellow was found out and hanged, basically because the Sommersby character whose identity he had assumed had been a murderer. I think the issue was that had he admitted that he wasn’t Sommersby, papers signed in his name would have been void and the community would have been ruined. So he sacrificed himself nobly for the good of others. Doesn’t really sound like our special friend here, does it?”

“Certainly not. In the French version he was hanged, too, but for less noble causes, I seem to recall. The protagonist’s name was Martin Guerre, by the way.”

John laughed softly. “ _Martin Sommersby_ _,_ seriously? My God, somebody tried to be clever, didn’t he?”

“Didn’t really help him, though. Police are now on to him. Gregson who’s on the case has been to his last abode in London, but he wasn’t there, of course. It didn’t look deserted, though. Fridge was still full, milk not gone off. He was planning to return presently from his trip to Suffolk. I’d say he is lying low for the time being, but will resurface before long. His bank account is being monitored, as are his credit and debit cards, and all A&Es and GPs in the vicinity have been notified. He didn’t show up at any of them last night, meaning that either he looked after his injury himself, or he knows people round here who helped him out. The latter is more likely. I believe he used some acquaintance with local knowledge to learn about the barrow in the first place. One of Gregson’s colleagues is on her way to interview Rutherford’s friend, Montville, and other academics he’s been seen with in the past. He won’t manage to survive on the run for very long. Also, something tells me that he’s going to stick around close by to see what happens to his precious excavation site. He might even go as far and grab some more artefacts when it’s unguarded, before trying to escape to the Continent or elsewhere, although he won’t manage to get out of the country, not unless he has better resources and connections than we are aware of right now.”

John nodded, only now realising that the room was actually quite cold. He shivered a little in his thin pyjamas. Sherlock shot him a worried look as he pocketed his mobile. “You okay?” he asked. “How is your shoulder and the rest of your injuries? Do you need painkillers?”

John shook his head. “They hurt, but it’s okay. Altogether much improved from yesterday. The only thing I need is a hot shower and then some breakfast and a good cup of tea. Actually, I think your ... ministrations this morning helped ease the pain a little. Endorphins and all that, you know,” he added, bumping Sherlock’s shoulder playfully. Sherlock smiled with surprising shyness. John had actually expected him to look smug.

“Any time,” he rumbled, giving John a warm glance and leaning in to kiss his cheek.

John turned to peck him on the lips, which resulted in Sherlock wrapping his arms around him carefully and drawing him close. They ended up kissing for a few minutes before John announced that he really needed the toilet now. Sherlock released him with reluctance. John felt his eyes following his every movement as he set out towards the bathroom, and he smiled happily to himself. Somebody was rather smitten, it seemed. He was glad he wasn’t the only one.

 

**- <o>-**

 

Katie had returned by the time John had finished his shower and arrived in the kitchen fishing the collar of his checkered shirt out of his jumper. Sherlock was already seated at the table. Apparently he had made tea and even set some plates, mugs and cutlery. He was perusing the local newspaper while Katie unloaded some shopping onto the counter.

“Morning, John,” she greeted him. “Slept well? Hope you’re not in pain anymore.”

“Morning, Katie. I’m much better, thanks for asking. Bit sore from riding, though. I guess I'd prefer to take the car today.”

“Yes, I thought so. I doubt you’ll be forced to do any riding today. I passed by the Millers when I fetched the children. The police will come at twelve and we’ll head out to the site. You’re welcome to come over before, Susan told me. Actually, I take it she'd prefer if you two came. I think she wants to discuss proceedings with you, especially how to deal with the police. I can take you, unless you want to stretch your sore legs and walk the short bit. I have to see to a client at the Suffolk Punch Trust at Hollesley this morning. Apparently one of their racers managed to lose a shoe already, don’t ask me how he did that. On my way back I’ll fetch Liz from the station at Melton. I’m glad she can make it, although given how excited she sounded on the phone, I don’t think she’d have missed this for the world.”

Sherlock lowered the papers and gave John a critical one-over as he sat down at the table and poured himself some tea. “Do you think you can manage a stroll through the fields?” he asked.

John rolled his eyes. “I’m not critically injured, you know. A light walk will be fine, especially with the weather this nice.”

“It’s unlikely to stay this way,” mused Katie as she set cereal, fruit and milk before the two men. “The forecast announced more rain for this afternoon.”

Sherlock made a noncommittal sound from behind his papers. Something seemed to have captured his attention, because he was reading interestedly, suddenly oblivious of his surroundings. John scanned the outer page absently as he cut a banana over his Weetabix. A large, colourful advertisement caught his eye.

“Looks like horse-breeding and stabling is booming round here,” he mused, gazing over at Katie. “Have you heard of this new stud they’re advertising here. Willow Creek Farm, near Wickham Market. That’s not far, is it? I think I saw the town on the map the other day. Must be good for business, since I can’t imagine that farriers are plentiful even in these parts.”

“Yes, I’ve been increasingly busy lately, which certainly I don’t mind, although it leaves me less time for Emma.” She leaned over for a better look. “I haven’t heard much about this particular stud, however. Dr. Hensley mentioned it once, I think, and Alan, one of the owners of the Suffolk Punch Trust was complaining about it the other day because they also offer stabling for racehorses and therefore are likely to compete with the Trust for clients. And the latter need the money they earn from boarding racehorses to maintain their breeding programmes for the Punches and other animals. You don’t make much money trying to protect old breeds and look after the countryside, like the Millers do as well. And funding and tourist activities only help so much.”

John nodded thoughtfully as he watched his Weetabix soak up the milk and turn soggy. There it was again, the faint nagging feeling he had experienced the previous evening. He looked up, frowning. Sherlock had equally lifted his head and was gazing at nothing in particular, his expression tense and thoughtful, before his eyes swivelled to John and his frown deepened.

Abruptly, his head whipped round to their host. “Katie, do you happen to know whether any of the horses at the Suffolk Punch Trust have been sick lately?” he asked.

Katie, surprised by this sudden, sharp address, lowered her spoon into her muesli bowl. “The odd colic occurred, and I know that they put two of the previous bunch of racehorses in quarantine for a while when they newly arrived because there had been a suspicion they might have contracted equine influenza at their previous stables. They hadn’t, though. Oh, and one of their Shetties is allergic to hay, but that’s a chronic condition. Nothing out of the ordinary, on the whole. You’d regularly find these and similar ailments at virtually any place that stables a considerable number of animals.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. Instantly, John felt himself tense as excitement began to hum low in his belly, his hunger forgotten. He knew that expression, and found himself waiting for a sharkish smile to appear on Sherlock’s face. The game, it seemed, was on. Of a sudden, what had been nagging him since last night became much clearer.

“These two colics, did they only occur in the Suffolk Punches, or the Thoroughbreds as well?” he asked, noting how Sherlock sat up even straighter at his question, an appreciative, eager light in his eyes.

“One each, as far as I recall. They didn’t seem to be serious, however,” explained Katie, glancing from one man to the other, obviously noticing the sudden suspense pervading the room. “Colics are everyday business, really, especially with high-achievement and high-maintenance breeds like Thoroughbreds. They’re less likely to occur in hardy breeds like the Punches, but haven’t been unheard of. Why, do you think there’s anything fishy about them?”

Sherlock glanced at John and smiled. “John thinks so, apparently.”

John felt himself blush. “Er ... yes, actually. It’s been bothering me since last night, since Kim started gushing about the racehorses, really, but I couldn’t figure out what exactly I felt was off. But now ... I mean, those racehorses are big money, aren’t they? Grand National hopefuls, Newmarket winners, you name them. If anything were to happen to them while they’re being stabled and trained at the Trust, that’d be a major blow to the organisation. Not financially at first, perhaps. I guess the horses would be insured and everything. But it doesn’t make for good publicity if the very horses you are supposed to be looking after fall ill or even die. This happens a few times and word makes the round, and you can close your establishment. So perhaps ...,” he shrugged.

“What if the Millers weren’t the real target in the first place? What if they and their horses were just conveniently close by for someone to test their poisoning skills while planning a big coup at the Suffolk Punch Trust? You know what I mean? Trying out different agents, working on getting the dosage right for the incidents to look like normal colics or comparable, everyday ailments. I’d be very interested in knowing whether similar poisonings occurred at other farms in the vicinity, only perhaps with less fatal outcomes so they didn’t raise any suspicions but were treated like normal illnesses.”

“Dr. Hensley would know about those,” mused Katie, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright with excitement.

“Yes, I daresay he would,” added Sherlock in a low voice. His eyes had never left John’s face and when John looked at him, he found them burning with rapt attention and appreciation. He swallowed and lowered his own gaze. There was a rustle of newspaper when Sherlock leaped up from his chair and rushed to John’s side, bending down to kiss his cheek.

“You are a marvel, John. Brilliant.” He swirled round and made to rush towards the door. In the frame he turned and scowled at the other two. “What are you waiting for? Forget about breakfast. We need to leave now.”

“Leave, where to?” asked John.

Sherlock sighed exasperatedly. “Seriously, John how can you be so incandescently brilliant one moment and yet incredibly dense the very next?”

“Yeah, thanks for that, I guess. Where do you want to go? To Hollesley?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Of course to Hollesley. Where else? Something is afoot at the Suffolk Punch Trust, and I have an inkling that if we hurry now, we may manage to catch our culprit red-handed.”

John frowned. “What makes you think so? Oi, Sherlock?”

But Sherlock had already dashed out of the door. Quickly, John ate two more spoonful of his breakfast and emptied his mug with one long draught, before giving Katie who was watching him with a smile a long-suffering look. “Guess it’s never boring with this one, eh?” she stated, quickly finishing her own beverage.

“No, definitely not,” he agreed. “But I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The drawing for this chapter is called "[You are brilliant, John.](http://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/110981940988/you-are-brilliant-john-illustration-and)"


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the long delay. Real life and two other fics interfered with the writing of this one. However, I've already made progress on the following chapters, so hopefully the next update won't take as long. Thanks for your patience, dear readers.

On their way to Hollesley, Sherlock interrogated Katie about their destination, its owners, organisation, the buildings and the surrounding lands, its reputation in the community and the owners’ relationship with the Millers. From catching glimpses of her expression in the rear mirror, John could tell that Katie was a bit amused by his quick fire questions and thoughtful pauses. As for John, he tried to write down a few points, but found himself somewhat distracted by the errant curl on Sherlock’s nape whenever he glanced up from his notebook. Telling himself firmly to get a grip and not descend to the level of hormonal disruption of a love-addled teenager suffering his first crush, he managed to at least follow the conversation.

They passed a crossroads and soon after took a right turn into a sandy driveway, descending gently between fenced-in pastures towards a modern-looking farm consisting of several stable buildings and a low, flat-roofed structure which Katie described as a visitor centre.

“They have a café in there, and a space for groups to hold workshops or listen to lectures. There is a Suffolk Punch museum as well. Behind the centre are the stables for their own stud, for the Punches. They also keep their other animals in this part, the pigs, cattle, sheep and chickens. There are several acres of woodland and meadows, a pond, an orchard and a vegetable garden – pretty much what you can find at the Millers’ farm, too, only it’s larger here and a bit more ... don’t know ... tamed, perhaps. It’s much more geared towards visitors, but then again they’re the one keeping the whole thing afloat and helping preserve the old breeds with their entrance fees and with what they spend on the premises. To the right you can see the new stables for the boarding horses. Alan, Melanie and Carl used to offer boarding for mares only, and all the services like foaling and weaning connected with horse-breeding, but stabling racehorses turned out to be good business, hence the new buildings and the fairly recent race-track you saw on our way in.”

“Not many visitors about today, are there?” remarked John, gazing at the nearly empty carpark in front of the visitor centre.

“They’re closed for visitors from November until March,” explained Katie. “The silver Ford is Dr. Hensley’s, and the two SUVs must belong to folks associated with the race-horses. They look like rich folks’ vehicles, anyway. I think one might be Carl’s, though. Come on, I’ll introduce you. I doubt they’ll mind if you have a look around. I’ll be in the new stable. Might have to bring the car and the trailer around, depending on what I’m required to do there.”

“Are you all right?” asked Sherlock quietly as they exited the car, giving John a quick once-over.

John nodded, frowning slightly. “Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”

“You were very quiet in the car.”

John rolled his eyes. “You were talking most of the time, or Katie when she replied to you. When should I have said anything? Moreover, I took some notes when I wasn’t distracted.”

“Distracted?” asked Sherlock confusedly. “The countryside hardly warrants that.”

John smirked. “You need a haircut if you want me to concentrate more on our cases.” With that, he left Sherlock standing where he was and set out after Katie. From the corner of his eye he glimpsed Sherlock raising a hand to touch the back of his head gently, a soft smile spreading across his face.

He was completely back in professional (demanding, impatient and therefore fairly annoying) mood when Katie introduced the two of them to Melanie Carey and Alan Hutchinson, the owners of the Suffolk Punch stud. They were a married, sympathetic and uncomplicated looking couple in their mid-forties, he already grey-haired, tall and wiry, she of about the same height with short blonde hair and glasses. Both were attired in working clothes that smelled of stable and animals. John gathered that they were currently breaking in two young Punches and teaching them to pull the plough.

“Recently, we were contacted by the BBC and one of the production companies working for them,” explained Alan when they set out through the visitor centre to reach the stables. There was obvious pride and excitement in his voice. Melanie walking next to him smiled.

“They’re planning to do another of these historical documentaries with these two archaeologists and the historian living and working on a farm, and they need a couple of Punches for that. Originally we wanted to use Peter’s mare and one of ours because they’d worked together before and well, but now that she’s gone, we need to hurry up with training some new ones as we’re required to rent them out for a period of time for the documentary, and the other working Punches we and the Millers have are needed next summer for other events, many of which are already booked. Have you found out anything about who might be behind these killings, Mr. Holmes? Katie mentioned that you and Dr. Watson were looking into the matter. Did you find the foal? Katie said that it had disappeared as well. We increased security, worried about our own animals.”

“The foal was recovered unhurt yesterday afternoon, and its disappearance had nothing to do with the killings, or not directly, at least,” replied Sherlock. “The foal had been ‘abducted’ and hidden in the vicinity of the Millers’ farm by well-meaning individuals to keep it safe and out of harm’s way, because they feared it might be poisoned as well. While recovering it Dr. Watson and I also discovered a small grave-robbing organisation at work on the Millers’ lands. The ‘foal-nappers’ originally thought that the men illegally excavating what looks to be an Anglo-Saxon barrow had been behind the poisonings because they had previously seen them on the lands, but ultimately, we found they were not involved in the killings.”

“Yes, we heard about the barrow,” nodded Melanie, looking excited. “Linda Nayland phoned me yesterday and told me a little about it. Apparently she’d been talking to Su. It’s pretty marvellous. We also got a call from the police last night, warning us to look out for a fugitive who I guess was involved in the venture.”

“Yes,” agreed Alan, “we even did rounds of the stables and the barn at hourly intervals to look for anything suspicious.” Sherlock pricked up his ears at this.

“Did you find anything?” he asked.

“Nothing out of the ordinary. One of the horses showed signs of a colic. That’s why Dr. Hensley is here today, the local vet. But there was no indication of anybody having broken into the buildings. It would have been difficult for that man to get in unnoticed. We have CCTV surveillance in most places, and to access the one stable that hasn’t got any, one has to pass the geese. They make an infernal racket at night when they feel threatened or sense anything they can’t place, sometimes even when one of our cats creeps past. We would certainly have noticed had anybody attempted to get in that way, and the CCTV didn’t show anything, either.”

John watched as Sherlock straightened his shoulders. He also caught the faint smirk. Apparently, his friend was on to something. “Where can I find the horse that has fallen ill? And which precise parts of the premises are not covered by CCTV and could be entered or passed unseen – despite the geese? Also, who around here surveys the tapes or files, and who has keys to the property, or access after hours?”

Alan gazed at him doubtfully. “Do you think he got in despite our security measures and is still hiding somewhere? Well, I daresay there are places where somebody could lie low, but the constable on the phone said he was injured, and—”

Shelrock held up a hand to interrupt him. “No, Mr. Hutchinson, I do not believe that the fugitive grave-robber is hiding in your hayloft. I do, however, have pertinent reason to suspect that someone has been poisoning your horses for a while now: your own, and the ones you are looking after for wealthy owners. Lead me to the one currently suffering from colic, and hopefully we’ll find evidence that it is not, in fact, afflicted by what you believe to be the most obvious explanation. I suspect that its condition was brought about by certain additions to its nutrition.”

Exchanging a shocked glance with his wife, Alan swallowed audibly, then nodded. “Please follow me.”

Falling in step with Sherlock after the distraught horse breeders, John slightly shook his head. “Never able to resist a touch of drama, are you?” he muttered, a tad reproachfully.

Sherlock simply shrugged. “It was the most expedient way of getting him to shut up and enable us to really look into the matter. And to perhaps save a life, if my suspicion proves true.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

The layout of the racehorse stable was very much like the large horse stable at the Miller’s farm, only that this building was much newer with a high, airy ceiling and relatively large windows, and built of wood, metal and fibreglass instead of brick. The stalls to either side of the central corridor were of wood and metal bars, and lacked the colourful, hand-drawn namesigns and other decorations which gave the Millers’ stable a homely feel.

This place looked sleek, shiny and professional, efficient yet somewhat impersonal and industrial in comparison. The smell, too, was different, thought John. It smelled of horse and hay all right, but not in the way he associated with what a stable was supposed to smell, and which was rooted deep in his memory, together with more private associations with hay and horses. This place smelled cleaner, as if the horses had been doused with shampoo to control their natural smell, and the floors had been scrubbed within an inch of their life. John guessed this was what modern horse breeding was all about: genetics and high performance testing instead of patience and a certain amount of trial and error.

The animals gazing at them as they entered the stable were also different from the majestic, good-natured Suffolk Punches or the shaggy Icelanders they had encountered the previous days. Watching them intently through the bars of their stalls were tall, lean creatures with large, dark eyes and pricked ears, their narrow, almost flesh-less faces and sleek, polished coats making them seem like they had never seen a day out on pasture, rolled on the ground and simply enjoyed a run over a meadow. These Thoroughbreds looked like high-functioning, efficient machines with their athletic bodies, cropped manes and clipped coats.

They reminded John of supermodels: tall and slim and beautiful, but in a remote, unearthly way. Likely, each of them cost more than John made in a year, and their maintenance seemed as complicated, a far cry from the uncomplicated hardiness of the two brave mares Sherlock and John had ridden the previous day, chasing them over stock and over stone in the pouring rain. The creatures here were bread for success, for making money on the racetrack. John knew that he preferred the other kind, even though these horses, too, looked very well cared for, lacking nothing.

One of the stalls was unlocked, and as they approached, two men rose from where they had been kneeling. One, a tall man of about John’s age, looked so much alike Mr. Hutchinson that he assumed him to be his brother, Carl. The other, a white-haired man in his late fifties with a short beard and a trim, somewhat ascetic appearance had to be Dr. Hensley. He was wearing a stethoscope round his neck and was in the process of peeling off a pair of disposable gloves.

In the stall, a bay coloured stallion was lying on his side. Even from a distance John could see that he was in pain. His coat was sweaty, and he was breathing audibly and rather fast. Now and again a shiver ran through him. The wood chip strewn ground showed signs of diarrhoea, and also deep ruts of the stallion’s hooves where apparently he had tried to struggle to his feet again after they had given way, and failed. Even now his legs were trembling and twitching as if in cramps. John was no vet, but to him this didn’t look like a normal colic. If he encountered a human in this state, he’d immediately assume poisoning of some kind.

Exchanging a quick glance with Sherlock standing next to him who had studied the scene with his habitual keen and searching glance, John saw his friend draw himself up.

“Dr. Hensley, I presume,” he said without waiting for an introduction. The veterinarian nodded, and Sherlock pressed on, eschewing a handshake, “If I were you, doctor, I’d check for poisonous substances in your patient’s fodder. Likely they’re cut up very small and hidden in the hay, or even ground up to mix evenly with the stallion’s ration of concentrated fodder or oats.”

Hensley exchanged a glance with Alan and Melanie, then looked at Katie and frowned. John recalled what she had said about his condescending attitude towards her because of her race, gender and perceived level of expertise, and scowled. “Alan, who is this man?” the vet demanded to know.

“James, this is Mr. Holmes, the detective from London who is looking into the case of the Millers’ poisoned horses.”

Hensley looked Sherlock up and down, then gave a small snort that made John bristle with indignation. “Detective, I see. Had veterinary training, too, had you, Mr. Holmes?”

“No,” replied Sherlock evenly, “but I have studied enough victims of poison and their remains to be familiar with the symptoms. You’d be surprised how much alike these are between humans and equines. I’m sure my colleague Dr. Watson will agree.”

He glanced at John, who took a step forward and couldn’t help puffing out his chest a little as he gave the vet a firm nod.

“I’d look for traces of yew and thuja,” went on Sherlock, the tiniest of smirks playing round the corners of his mouth at John’s display, “particularly the former, and I’d do something to empty the stallion’s stomach, and fast. Our dear poisoner, despite having practised on the Millers’ two Suffolk Punches and several of the Thoroughbreds here appears to have rather miscalculated the dose this time, perhaps because he was in a hurry yesterday, or because he had to hide his traces particularly well due to raised security. It was not supposed to kill, this dose, merely to severely incapacitate the horse so that he wouldn’t have been able to run at a local race next weekend, and also to not be considered a suitable stallion for breeding, thus rendering him practically worthless to his owners, and a cheap bargain to snatch up, should they decide to get rid of him. Who’d want a stallion prone to serious colics? But acquired cheaply and miraculously recovered, suddenly his worth increases again, and a nice deal has been achieved. Unfortunately, however, this stallion is not as resilient as our dear poisoner anticipated, perhaps due to some other, unforeseen ailment. If you want to save him, doctor, act quickly.”

Hensley and the others stared at him with the usual expressions of those encountering Sherlock Holmes’ brilliance and rapid fire deductions for the first time. Katie was the first to overcome her awe. “What do you need, doctor?” she asked, taking off her jacket and rolling up the sleeves of her jumper.

Hensley shook himself slightly and nodded, then began to instruct Katie to fetch water to attempt to get the animal to drink, before changing his mind and sending her to get an IV bag and drip instead. John was about to move to aid her, but Sherlock held him back gently. “Rein in your doctorly reflexes, John,” he murmured into his ear. “I think you’ll have to exercise your soldierly side in a moment.”

John gave him a questioning glance, but Sherlock didn’t elaborate. Instead, he turned to Carl Hutchinson who’d sidled out of the stall and was standing behind his brother and Melanie, watching the scene warily.

Sherlock bent his eyes on him while John stepped over and positioned himself half behind him. Apparently Sherlock had found the poisoner, or at least suspected the man of some misdeed. Carl seemed nervous, licking his lips, his hands twitching in the pockets of his padded waistcoat.

Sherlock spun round to him, his coat swirling dramatically. “Wasn’t that the plan, Carl?” Sherlock addressed him, speaking lightly, but with steel edging his words.

The man tried to look defiant and failed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he returned curtly.

“Obviously you didn’t listen, then,” said Sherlock sharply. “I just outlined your reasoning. What did you mix into the fodder? Was it yew?” He took a step towards the other, his eyes narrowing. “Speak up, man. Dr. Hensley needs to know which toxin to combat, or else the horse will die.”

“Carl, what is the meaning of this?” asked Melanie, looking torn between shock and anger.

“That’s what I’d like to know,” said Carl defensively, albeit taking a step back. “On what grounds are you accusing me of such a deed? I work here. It’s in my interest that the horses are healthy. This is preposterous. Alan, Katie, why on earth did you invite this ... freak here? He’s babbling nonsense.”

“Am I?” enquired Sherlock lightly. “Interestingly, the traces you left online rather prove my accusations, Mr. Hutchinson. Yes, you work here, but only because you need the money, and because you saw it as a good opportunity to cover your tracks while sitting right at the source of your criminal dealings. In truth you dislike your work here. You resent the fact that your brother and his wife are running the place while you are left with what you consider menial tasks. Your failed career as a dressage rider due to an accident moreover gave you a deep loathing of horses, especially high performance ones. This dislike includes their owners, whom, according to some of your comments on your twitter account, you detest for their ‘poshness’ and – how did you call it –‘Overblown self-importance and pretended expertise’?”

Carl twitched at the mention of Twitter, and John knew they had him.

“Ah, and there’s more,” went on Sherlock, obviously relishing the moment of his triumph. “Your gambling habit has left you indebted to people you don’t really want to be indebted to. In fact, nobody does, because it’s a very unhealthy situation to be in. In order to raise the money you owe them and to be finally rid of them, you fell in with some equally unpleasant but slightly less threatening local people. You promised them to sabotage the Millers’ bid on the land east of their estate, and when that failed, you tried to endear yourself to the owners of the new stables over at Wickam Market by tarnishing the reputation of your brother’s endeavour with the racehorses here. Oh, and insurance fraud is in it somewhere, too. I haven’t quite worked out how you engineered it, and who else is involved. Likely you made a deal with one of the racehorses’ owners. I suspect one or more of them have horses both here and at Wickam Market. You were supposed to take care of the animals stabled here, and either prevent them from running races or be interesting as studs or breeding mares by keeping them permanently, albeit not critically, ill. You have a good working knowledge of equine physiology and anatomy to know which plants are toxic for them, and you did a bit of experimenting on the Millers’ Suffolk Punches to get the dosage right, and also to see if your actions would be noticed, whether the poisonings would be regarded as accidents or natural causes like colics, before you moved on to your larger coups, namely the slow and crafty sabotage of your brother’s enterprise. But something went wrong with your latest attempt, didn’t it? This stallion is much worse off than you intended. So for God’s sake, speak up, man. What did you give him, and how much?”

By the time Sherlock fell silent, Carl had tried to back away from him until he bumped against John. “Don’t even think of running,” John told him quietly.

“Carl,” Alan fell in sternly. He was pale, his features drawn. His eyes had darted between the horse, Sherlock and his brother, but now they were fixed upon the latter. “I know he is right about the gambling and your riding history, although God knows how he learned about it so quickly. Is he right about the rest, too?”

There was a silent plea in his voice to not make the situation worse. Carl looked about wildly, but found himself surrounded by Sherlock, John, Alan and Melanie, the latter of whom looked ready to strangle him. He drew himself up, as if briefly considering to try and break through, at which Melanie’s eyes narrowed and switched towards a hayfork leaning against a neighbouring stall, but then his shoulders sagged and he let out a long breath, running a trembling hand through his hair.

“It was yew,” he admitted hoarsely. “But it shouldn’t affect him so. I mixed a few ground needles into his oats three days ago, not enough to render him in such a state by a long way. It was just meant to give him a mild colic. I don’t know why he’s so badly off suddenly. Yew works straight away, and it didn’t endanger him at all back when I gave it to him. He had a bit of diarrhoea a few hours after feeding time on Sunday, just enough so that he couldn’t train on Monday and yesterday. A rival of the owner who’d missed out on buying the stallion has been ... sponsoring me, and doing so generously. But as I said, I never meant to kill him. So whatever he has, it’s not yew poisoning. His metabolism should already have gotten rid of the toxin.”

Sherlock studied him. “You’re the expert, I’d say, having perfected your poisoning skills over the past few months. You’re in big trouble – Mr. Hutchinson, I recommend you alert the police (they may already be on their way because of the grave robbery case), and you, Mrs. Carey, inform the Millers and tell them to come over. Dr. Hensley, did you find any wounds on the animal’s body?”

“No,” replied the doctor from where he was kneeling next to the horse’s neck, applying an IV-drip with saline solution. “And the signs all point towards ingested toxins. I checked the fodder, too, but it looks and smells normal. I’ve taken samples of blood and faeces, too, but I can only do rudimentary tests here. They must be checked properly in the lab at my clinic.”

“Are there any toxins that require a few days to take effect?” enquired John. “Some kind of fungus, perhaps, like deathcap? They cause liver damage in humans and can be fatal in larger doses, but their toxins require time to affect the tissue. That’s why they are so dangerous. Could be something else, too, as it’s too late in the year for deathcaps. Mould spores, bacteria? Ergot in the grains that were being fed? Something that accumulates over time, perhaps through repeated ingestion, like arsenic or mercury?”

Katie looked up from where her eyes had been riveted on the suffering animal, following her hand that had been stroking his neck to calm the stallion. “Could it be a case of forage botulism? Carl, where did you get the yew from? Were the cuttings fresh?”

The man shook his head. He had lost all bravado and looked completely wretched. “No. They were dry. Otherwise the dark colour of the needles would have given them away more easily, and it would have been more difficult to ground them up. I got them from the heap of hedge clippings behind the pig sty.”

John exchanged a glance with Sherlock. “Botulinum toxin,” he muttered. “Seems to be haunting us, that stuff.”

Sherlock nodded gravely. “Do you have an antidote at hand, Dr. Hensley?”

“Yes, at the clinic,” the vet replied. “I’m going to drive there now and see if I can detect the clostridium botulinum in the samples, and if yes, I’ll get the antidote. Keep him hydrated,” he instructed the Hutchinsons with a worried glance at the stallion. “I’ll return as soon as I can. Inform the owner, even if they’re out of the country at the moment. This is serious.”

“I’ll stay with him,” volunteered Katie, at which Melanie and Alan looked grateful, both still appearing rather shell-shocked after the revelation that their own relative had been working to damage their enterprise and thus betrayed them. Melanie’s anger seemed to be turning into sadness. John pitied them, wondering, as he so often did when the motives behind a crime were revealed, to which depths of despair some people fell, and what they set out to do to try and claw their way out of the dark pit again.

The veterinarian packed his bag and rushed out of the stable while both Melanie and Alan dug for their mobiles to make the suggested phone-calls.

“What gave me away?” Carl enquired of Sherlock, his voice weary and dejected, but strangely relieved sounding, as if he was almost grateful that things were coming to an end now. Perhaps, John reasoned, his financial troubles were of the kind where he incurred the ill will of criminals against whom one feels safer in police custody. Or maybe he was simply exhausted of foul play. He didn’t look like a shrewd, heartless villain, but rather like a desperate man near the end of his tether.

Sherlock gave him a long glance. To John’s surprise, he didn’t look bored. Then again, when did he ever fail to enjoy a chance to show off his deductive powers in front of an audience, particularly if John was part of it?

“The traces you left online, mostly,” began Sherlock. “Once the Goodman brothers had been ruled out as the poisoners and moreover there was evidence of horses being miraculously sick at the Trust as well and not just the Millers’ farm, I was obvious that the true culprit must somehow be associated with this here enterprise, admittedly a much more profitable venue than the Millers’. Why they had been targeted in the first place had always puzzled me. The sole explainable reason, apart from some petty personal vendetta, could only ever had been the fact they managed to acquire the coveted farmland while others missed out. I did some research on who the other interested parties were and their local connections, and so learned of the affiliation of the Suffolk Punch Trust with one of the pig farmers who had been very eager for the land, and vocal about its loss on various online platforms. You have been dating that man’s sister for quite some time and only recently fell out with her because of your gambling habit, and also perhaps because you failed to scare the Millers off their land as you had promised in return for some money her brother lent you to pay off your debts with the London mob. As for that, again your internet accounts show a plain trace. You should really be more careful about what you say on Twitter.”

Carl heaved a dejected sigh at that. He seemed to have lost all fight and stood with hanging shoulders and a pale, drawn expression. John almost felt sorry for him, but then his eyes were drawn to the suffering horse which seemed to have calmed down a little due to Katie’s ministrations. Its breathing was still laboured, however, and its coat matted with sweat. No, he decided, causing animals pain like that was definitely not on.

Casting a glance at Sherlock who was still watching Carl with an unforgiving expression, he frowned. “When did you find out all this?” he asked with genuine interest.

Sherlock turned to him and gave him a faint, proud smile. “Most of it last night, once I’d become aware of Mr. Hutchinson and his connection to the rival bidder. I refined my online research this morning, after you had dozed off again. Katie’s recollections in the car filled in the gaps and confirmed most of my findings.”

John was certain he was looking suitably impressed, and likely was blushing slightly as well due to Sherlock’s referral to their sleeping arrangements, because Sherlock’s smile broadened. “I thought you might have been distracted. Storing new information and all that, you know,” he muttered, causing Sherlock to blush in turn.

“I had to devote myself to the Work to get rid of a certain ... inconvenience,” he returned softly, leaning slightly closer to John, who grinned.

“Yeah, well, I did offer to help you with that,” he reminded him.

Sherlock gave him a look, then drew himself up. “You did, but then I wouldn’t have solved the case, would I? Or not as quickly, at least, which would likely have resulted in the death of this horse.”

John snorted. “Well done you,” he stated, clapping Sherlock’s shoulder, before turning grave. “He’s not through it yet," he mused, nodding towards the horse. “What happens now?”

“Now we wait for the police, and for Dr. Hensley to return with the antidote,” replied Sherlock in a clipped tone and withdrawing his mobile from the inner pocket of his coat, he switched it on and busied himself with taking photographs of the crime scene.

 

**- <o>-**

 

Both the constables and the veterinarian arrived about an hour later. The former were accompanied by Susan and Peter, both of whom were shocked and angry at learning who had killed their horses, and why. They commiserated with Melanie and Alan, and the four of them withdrew to talk in private after the police had noted down all details, taken photographs of the poisoned stallion, and had finally secured Carl in their car to take him to the station for a more thorough interrogation. Sherlock and John were asked for a statement, too, which Sherlock delivered with surprising patience. John added what bits Sherlock deemed unimportant, but was soon released to help Katie and Dr. Hensley.

He had been right about the botulism. With the aid of Hensley’s assistant, a young man called Colin, they administered the antidote. Even though no immediate improvement was visible in the horse, Hensley announced that he considered his chances of survival promising.

Sherlock came over when John was washing his hands next to the sick horse’s stall, looking both smug and slightly irritated.

“Have the constables left?” asked John.

“They’re about to. With Hutchinson on their hands now, they won’t be inspecting the excavation site right away but are going to look after him first, and have people from Ipswich and likely London come in to deal with the grave-robbing case. Apparently our friend Sommersby has been spotted on CCTV at Liverpool Street Station this morning. Scotland Yard is on to him now with Gregson on the case. I would have preferred Lestrade, but this isn’t his division. Still, Gregson is better than some of the other idiots in the Met.”

“Will we be required to give more detailed statements in the Sommersby case?” John wanted to know.

“Likely, yes, but we should be able to do that in London, or over the phone. They’ve already taken down the most important facts, and I am confident that they are capable of dealing with the paperwork. They haven’t been entirely dilettante handling these cases. For country officers, they’re rather efficient.”

John grinned. “High praise from you indeed. What are we going to do now? Stick around for when they inspect the barrow again? Or do you want to return to London right away, now that the case – or cases, in fact – have been solved.”

Sherlock looked undecided for a moment, gazing at John with a thoughtful expression. John wondered what he was thinking. He almost seemed reluctant to leave and not quite prepared to admit it. And indeed, their stay in Suffolk had been extraordinary on many levels. John for one was loath to depart so soon, just when Sherlock had begun to relax again after his unhappy, distressed appearance after his trip to Switzerland. Moreover, he was both touched and pleased about the way their relationship had evolved these past few days. He almost feared that an immediate return to London and to their usual routines would be detrimental to the tender intimacy and increased physicality that had developed between them.

Judging from his gaze, Sherlock was thinking along the same lines. “We should stay at least one more night,” he said at length. “I’d like to meet this friend of Katie’s, Dr. Elizabeth Reid the archaeologist. Moreover the Millers will want to thank us.”

John shook his head, laughing softly at Sherlock’s dismayed expression at his last statement. “You look as if they’re going to eat you. They’re nice, hardworking people, Sherlock, and they seem to genuinely like you. It’s going to be good, I’m sure, and the level of annoyance should be tolerable even for you. So humour them. Tomorrow you can be your grumpy self again.”

“I’m not grumpy,” protested Sherlock, at which John only raised an eyebrow.

 

**- <o>-**

 

A short while later they were joined by Katie, who announced that she was going to fetch her friend Liz from Melton train station. When asked whether they wanted to stay at the farm to travel with the Millers later, Sherlock announced that he preferred to go to Melton as well. He seemed eager to meet the archaeologist, or perhaps, thought John, he was beginning to feel bored at the farm.

The sick stallion was slowly improving, with the antidote seemingly working, therefore Katie was confident, as she said, to leave him in the vet’s and his assistant’s care.

“Hensley isn’t a bad vet,” she admitted in the car. “It’s just his general attitude I don’t like. If he had a problem with me personally, I’d be fine with that. But he’s a bit of a chauvinist, very old school. And we’re not in the 1950s anymore.”

“There’s no helping some folks,” shrugged John. “Still, he seemed to appreciate your expertise back there. Ever thought about picking up studying veterinary medicine again? You’d be good at it, I think.”

She shrugged. “I catch myself considering it from time to time. I might have done when Andrew was still around. But now ... Perhaps when Emma is a little older. I like my current job, and it pays enough to let us live comfortably. So who knows. What about you? Molly said you’re doing locum work as a GP. But that’s not what you trained for, is it? You must be rather overqualified, and under-stimulated.”

“In fact, I had to do some reading up. Field surgery is a bit different from treating everyday ailments. I considered applying for A&E after returning from Afghanistan but lacked the confidence with my PTSD issues, which ruled out surgery. And then Sherlock happened.”

Sherlock’s head jerked up from where it had been bent over his phone. “What about me?” he asked, clearly startled out of his thoughts.

John laughed. “I just told Katie that you happened to me, at a time when I wasn’t too well, to put it mildly. And that everything got turned around pretty wildly because of it.”

Sherlock turned in the front passenger seat to glance at John out of the corner of his eye. “Do you regret it, then, the disruption of your life plans?” he asked.

John reached out to ruffle his curls, causing him first to frown, and then to lean into the touch. “No, you daft man, never. You should know that by now. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Sherlock swallowed slightly. His eyes softened, and he reached up to catch John’s hand, which he kissed almost shyly. “So are you,” he said gravely before releasing the hand again, clearing his throat and straightening his shoulders, as if embarrassed by his display of sentiment.

John caught Katie’s expression in the rear mirror. She was rolling her eyes while at the same time smiling wistfully and a little sadly, and John wondered if she was thinking of her deceased husband.

 

**- <o>-**

 

By the time they reached the small station next to the meandering tidal river Deben with its reed-beds and mudflats, it had started to rain again. A strong breeze blew, ruffling the trees next to the station building, bringing with it the smell of the sea. Sea-gulls were flying overhead, their hoarse cries eery and lonesome. The carpark was quite full which astonished John, until he noticed that most drivers were only stopping briefly to shop at the butchers who occupied part of the station building.

“Their meat pies and sausage rolls are really good, and so are their smoked goods,” said Katie, “in case you fancy some lunch. Liz’s train is delayed, meaning we’ll have to wait a short while. If it wasn’t raining, I’d suggest you take a stroll along the river. There’s a track on the other side of the rails, hidden by those willows over there. It’s quite beautiful, and you can often spot waterfowl on the mudflats. But perhaps not today. Do you want to stay in the car, Sherlock?”

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise, again engrossed in his phone. Apparently there was mobile reception again and he wanted to make the most of it. John decided to leave him to it and followed Katie into the butchers shop. Since it was around lunchtime, a small queue had formed at the counter, most people apparently waiting to be served hot pies. Katie was greeted by some of them, and soon struck up a conversation about poodles versus terriers with an elderly woman. John wandered about, his stomach announcing an interest in the pies. In the end he bought two small ones and had them heated.

Returning to the car, he found that Sherlock had moved to the rear bench, apparently to leave the front passenger seat to Liz. He looked funny with his long legs squished into the detritus of stuff that lived in Katie’s car, although he didn’t seem to mind the lack of space. John slid in next to him and waved a pie under his nose, at which Sherlock scrunched it up rather adorably.

“You didn’t have breakfast,” John reminded him.

“I had coffee.”

“Which isn’t food. Moreover, the case is solved. I think your body can handle digestion and thinking at the same time for now.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at him and sighed, but he ate the pie all the same, and seemed to enjoy it. They really were good, so much so that John considered getting another. Just when he was moving to get out of the car, he saw Katie cross the carpark. She was accompanied by a small, slender woman in her mid-thirties. She was dressed for the outdoors, but in a way that suggested that normally, she’d be wearing more feminine clothes, more in line with the Hermes overnight bag she was carrying in addition to a hiking rucksack. Her hair was long and pulled up in a French braid, and she was wearing pearl earrings and subtle make-up, creating an interesting contrast to Katie’s stronger build, more masculine clothing and practical, windswept hairstyle.

They were talking amicably and rather excitedly as they approached. Next to John, Sherlock looked up from his phone and studied the newcomer. John thought he saw a glint of recognition in his eyes. He wondered whether Sherlock remembered her from university, and what else he had deduced about her at a look. She, certainly, recalled him, and apparently fondly, too, because she smiled at him as they shook hands in the car after Katie had introduced them.

“Sherlock Holmes, fancy meeting you here,” said Liz. “I’ve heard a lot about you recently. Not sure if you remember me from our afternoons at Fitzbillies. We never actually talked that much back in Cambridge. If I remember correctly, your friend used to do most of the talking, likely to try and impress me. You just sat by and watched, and sometimes scowled a little. I think I rather traumatised your friend back then, after he’d tried to chat me up and it backfired quite spectacularly. But to be honest, I rather liked him, and wouldn’t have minded spending more time with him. I didn’t pursue it, though. Didn’t want to give him wrong ideas about me. Moreover, I always assumed the two of you were an item. Anyway, I’m very pleased to finally be properly introduced. Pleased to meet you, too, Dr. Watson. I did a bit a reading on the train – wanted to know who’d I be dealing with after Katie mentioned your names – and came across your blog. You really should get your stories published.”

Sherlock heaved a dramatic sigh at this. John bumped his shoulder playfully. “See? People are enjoying it. Despite the ‘ridiculous prose’ and ‘romanticisation of characters and events’.”

Sherlock snorted, before at Liz’s prompting, he launched into a detailed account of their encounter with the grave-robbers the previous day, which soon veered off into a discussion of Anglo-Saxon archaeology and different ways of classifying and dating finds, of which Sherlock seemed surprisingly knowledgeable (or not surprisingly, mused John, considering the eclectic nature of his knowledge).

John was happy to listen, leaning back into the seat. His head and shoulder were throbbing dully again. For this reason, he didn’t entirely support the decision to not head to Katie’s first for Liz to drop off her luggage, but to drive to the barrow straight away. By the time they arrived, the rain had died down to a fine drizzle. Still, the weather was all but comfortable. After a brief inspection of the site, they decided to wait in the car for the arrival of the police, with Liz practically gushing with excitement about what she had seen.

While taking extensive notes on her small laptop and scrolling through the photographs she had taken with her camera, she chatted with Katie, catching up on gossip and enquiring about how she was faring with Emma. John felt sleepiness creep up on him, and wished he had bought a coffee at the station in addition to the pies. He seriously considered taking a nap, but then he felt Sherlock stir next to him and lean forward to address Liz, causing John to snap to attention.

“You said you had heard a lot about me recently,” said Sherlock. “I doubt this was all Katie’s doing. Was it because of the art forgery case last month? Not exactly your field of study, antiquities, but still related, and moreover it was snatched up by the press and widely written about, even in serious publications and not just the tabloids.”

Liz turned in her seat. “I read about the case in the papers and remembered your name. Also, I recognised you in the photograph. You haven’t changed much since uni, I have to say. Only your sense of dress is more refined. I really like your coat. Belstaff, isn’t it? Pity they don’t sell them anymore. But in fact I had already been reminded of your name before the article was published. I’d heard about your supposed death, of course, back when it was all over the news, but I didn’t immediately make the connection with the scowling fellow I remembered from Cambridge. I thought you looked familiar, but since, as I said, we never really had much contact at uni, I wasn’t entirely sure if you were the same guy. And then I met your friend at some charity event in Kensington where he was promoting his teas, and we got chatting. He’d only recently arrived in the UK, and I think he was glad to see a familiar face, even though we hadn’t seen each other for years, not since he suddenly left uni.”

“When you say ‘friend’,” interjected John, suddenly all ears, “do you mean Victor Trevor?” He noticed how Sherlock almost imperceptibly stiffened at the mention of the name, although he must have deduced who Liz had been talking about immediately.

“Yes, do you know him?”

John shook his head. “No. Not personally. But Sherlock mentioned him recently.”

“Well,” went on Liz, “as I said, Victor seemed glad to encounter a familiar face. He was on his own that night, his wife having some other social obligation. She works for an environmental organisation, did you know? Anyway, so there we were, talking about the old days like our teatimes at Fitzbillies while sipping samples of his teas, and we got talking about mutual acquaintances from uni, as one does. I recalled the news hubbub about Sherlock, and since I remembered that Victor had been away and perhaps not heard, and considering that they had been friendly – in fact, I always thought Victor had fancied him, the way he’d been looking at him, but then he’d made passes at me until he learned of my preferences, and he’d always had some kind of girlfriend. Anyway, I asked Vic whether he and Sherlock had kept in contact, which, to my surprise, he denied, looking somewhat ... unsettled about it. I thought he might have heard about the suicide and was saddened by the reminder. I didn’t want to pry and so didn’t pursue the topic, but at this point somebody else who had overheard parts of our conversation felt the need to put in their bit and started ranting about Sherlock’s suicide and its treatment by the tabloids. All good and true things, but totally inappropriate, because poor Victor suddenly turned very pale. I seriously thought he was going to be sick for a moment, but then he recovered. I later learned that he hadn’t previously known about the suicide at all, and seemed truly upset by it. I felt sorry for him. He’s a decent guy, Victor, and we have kept in contact since. And his wife is pretty hot, but, alas, already spoken for,” she added with a wink which John barely computed because he was looking at Sherlock with rapt attention.

Sherlock was sitting very straight, his face unreadable. But John knew him well enough by now to see behind the façade. Sherlock was confused and struggling with the implications of what he had just heard, masking his turbulent emotions with cold indifference. At length, swallowing very slightly, he asked, “Why would he be upset? We haven’t seen each other, nor spoken, nor maintained any contact whatsoever for almost fifteen years, and we did not part on good terms. Why would he care if I jumped off a building?”

“You know, I basically asked him the same,” replied Liz, “after I learned that you hadn’t been in contact for a long time. At first I thought you’d broken up with each other, but Victor told me you’d never been a couple, which struck me as odd, because I always saw the two of you hanging out together. And as I said, I also noticed the way he looked at you. Not sure if I was too forward – I tend to be that way, so do tell me off if I get too direct, please –, I wanted to know whether he’d fancied you back then but had been too macho to admit it. You know, with his rowing mates already taunting him about spending time with you and all that. Might have caused him to be careful. Silly, really, but then guys can get really defensive about their sexuality, especially when they haven’t quite sorted it out for themselves.”

At this, she cast the briefest of glances at John. “Victor didn’t admit it at once, but eventually, he said yes, there had been some attraction. But he made sure to add immediately that he’d never known whether Sherlock had actually been interested in anything physical or romantic in the first place.”

Fixing Sherlock with a keen gaze, she challenged, “Were you?”

John thought he could see Sherlock actually jump at the question. He blinked, then blinked some more, sitting frozen like a deer in the headlights. “I ... er ...,” he began, then cleared his throat, his tense shoulders sagging a little. “I don’t know,” he confessed. “They’re not exactly my thing, relationships and ... romance and … sex. Never have been.”

“Oh, really?” fell in Katie with a warm smile and a wink. “Must have mistaken the toothrottingly sweet display of affection on our way to the station for something else, then.”

Sherlock blushed at this, but looked touched as well. John reached out to take his hand and stroked it, which earned him a grateful glance from Sherlock. “He’s beginning to see their merits,” he stated, trying not to sound too smug.

“That’s true,” admitted Sherlock, squeezing his hand gently. “But back at university, I really didn’t know. Before Victor, nobody had ever shown any romantic interest in me at all. His signals were all confused, and therefore confusing. And then we fell out, and all my attempts at restoring our friendship were repelled. I got the impression he hated me. So to reiterate my question, why, after all this time, would he be upset?”

“I think he was under the impression that he’d messed up back then, and coming to England, he might have entertained the idea of contacting you to make amends.”

Sherlock frowned. “Why would he do that after such a long time of absolute silence? Also, had he wanted, he could have contacted me at any point in the intervening years. He wouldn’t have needed to come to England for that, just type my name into Google and follow the link to my website. It even has my mobile number.”

John bumped his shoulder. “Because people change, Sherlock. And some become wiser and less of an arsehole with age. Making amends after all this time would be difficult and require courage. Perhaps he wanted to do it face to face. Thinking of his situation, I know of somebody else who didn’t call for a long time until he suddenly showed up in London again.”

Sherlock drew in a long breath at this and looked a little chastened. John bumped his shoulder again and squeezed his hand.

“You know, perhaps you should contact him. I hope he’s learned by now that you’re not really dead.”

Liz nodded. “Yes, I told him as soon as the news were out. He seemed very relieved.”

Sherlock gave John a sly glance. “If I talked to him, and even proposed to meet him, wouldn’t that make you jealous?”

John rolled his eyes, aware that both women were exchanging looks and grinning. “I don’t get jealous when you talk to other men, you know. As long as you don’t plan to engage in any hanky-panky with him, I’m sure I won’t have a fit.”

“Then again,” he added with a grin, “you could always keep me around, in case you need a bodyguard.”

Liz laughed. “Not sure how’d you fare against his wife, John. She’s pretty fierce. But yes, I think you really should meet, perhaps all four of you. Should be interesting. He’s bound to be in town again around Christmas. Oh, looks like there are cars approaching.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

The rest of the afternoon was spent inspecting the excavation site yet again, in the company of the police this time who moreover wanted to see where John and Sherlock had been attacked and where Sommersby had crashed his quad. After all of them had been sufficiently drenched by the incessant rain, the company withdrew to the Millers’ kitchen. The children had returned from school as well and were questioned both about the grave-robbers and whether any of them remembered seeing Carl Hutchinson or his girlfriend Jen, who had also been apprehended, around the Millers’ farm during those times when their horses had been poisoned.

Both Edmund and Lucy confirmed it for the day prior to Rædwald’s demise, and so did Peter, who even remembered talking to him because Carl had returned some equipment he had borrowed for the Trust. Since the man had already confessed his crimes, the constables didn’t dwell long on the matter but focussed on the case of Sommersby and his two companions instead.

While they were talking over tea and biscuits (with Sherlock rapidly losing interest and beginning to get bored, judging from his expression), Constable Havers received a call from Scotland Yard. Apparently, Sommersby had been apprehended trying to check himself into Chelsea Hospital’s A&E under a false name to get his leg injury treated.

“Should have gone to a GP,” commented John, watching Sherlock call Gregson in turn to milk him for more details of Sommersby’s apprehension. “He must have been aware of the police tracking him, especially because there was such a high chance that his two partners in crime would be recognised and caught, and that moreover they’d blab.”

Sherlock ended the phone-call with Gregson. “Likely he, like so many petty criminals, overestimate their own cleverness,” he stated, leaning against the counter. “The police can be very efficient when they want to be, and aren’t bogged down by bureaucracy or personal incompetence.”

The two constables exchanged glances at this. To John’s surprise, Sherlock apparently felt the need to elaborate. “Yes, I was referring to you, gentlemen. Given the number of criminals we delivered to you over the course of two days, your dealing with them has been exemplarily quick and competent.”

John stared at him. “Are you feeling all right?” he asked under his breath, at which Sherlock only grinned and helped himself to another biscuit. John shook his head, grinning as well.

“You should print what he said to you and frame it,” he told the two policemen. “I don’t recall him ever commending any officer like that, not even those he works with on a regular basis.”

Sherlock looked slightly affronted. “I do dispense praise where it is due, John. You should know that by now.”

Taking his tea, he withdrew from the table to stalk over to the window, where immediately Edmund latched onto him and began to question him mercilessly about his work as a detective, which seemed to fascinate him even more than the two uniformed constables. Lucy, Emma, Kim and Anne seemed more taken with Liz, who at their bidding had unpacked her rucksack, unrolled her toolkit and was patiently explaining the various brushes and their uses to the girls.

The entire scene was strangely peaceful and idyllic, and looking about the kitchen John felt contentment settle over him. He decided he wouldn’t mind if they stayed another day or two. Even Sherlock appeared relaxed, his boredom kept at bay by Edmund’s relentless questions and genuine interest, even admiration, which Sherlock was always partial to.

At length, the constables left, promising to keep the assembly informed about the development of both cases. John rose from his chair with a slight groan to join Sherlock and Edmund at the window. It was already dark outside. Sherlock was showing the boy pictures on his phone.

“I hope you’re not showing him any body parts,” he muttered, stepping close to Sherlock and peering over his arm.

“No recognisable ones,” replied Sherlock.

“He’s been showing me all kinds of bruises, and what one can tell from them,” chimed in Edmund, looking fascinated.

“Yeah, thought so,” stated John darkly, giving Sherlock a meaningful glance and indicating that Sherlock follow him.

“What?” asked Sherlock a little defensively after Edmund had sauntered off to join his sister and the other girls. “I wasn’t showing him anything inappropriate for his age, or what he hasn’t seen before. He grows up on a farm, John. He is used to seeing icky things, and dead ones, too. I very much doubt I scarred him for life.”

“Okay. But don’t overdo it, yeah? By the way, apparently Liz is staying at Katie’s this night. What about us? Want to return to London tonight? We could still catch a train, I guess. Did Gregson say he needed us for Sommersby’s conviction?”

“He told me to come over tomorrow. Sommersby is going to spend the night in hospital, under police watch. We can catch an early train tomorrow morning. Katie can take us when she drives to Woodbridge to drop the children off at school.”

He gave John a long glance. “Unless you insist on returning tonight. But I thought given the abysmal weather and the fact that you’re still in pain, another night here would be preferable.”

“That was thoughtful of you, thanks,” replied John, touched by Sherlock’s coddling. “One could almost believe that you have come to like the Suffolk countryside, and the people we’ve me here.”

Sherlock glared at him and sniffed disdainfully. “Don’t be ridiculous, John,” he said, but he was smiling as he uttered the words.

 

**- <o>-**

 

Susan and Peter insisted of preparing dinner for the assembly, which was increased by the arrival of Alan and Melanie, and Stuart and Linda Nayland, as well as Anne’s and Kim’s parents. The large kitchen table proved just big enough to accommodate all the people, and moreover all the food. John didn’t recall when last he had eaten so much, and so well. Also, when encouraged by Peter to try his home-made ciders and applejacks, he drank more alcohol than he had in a long time.

Subsequently, he was in good spirits and just a little bit tipsy when they returned to Katie’s cottage on foot, following the road because the bridle path through the fields would have been too muddy due to the rain. Katie had driven ahead with Emma and Liz, but Sherlock had insisted they walk. John, warm and full and feeling loose and buoyant with drink, agreed, glad about a chance to stretch his legs.

“This has been a good case,” he stated when they were walking side by side on the wet road. “Or cases, rather. I’m glad we went. Moreover, I like it here. They’re nice. Katie, the Millers, Liz, everybody. Feels like we’ve known them for years. We should return here for a proper holiday. Bring the bikes, perhaps, in summer. I’d like to hike this UFO trail in the forest.”

Sherlock was walking beside him, his face half hidden by the collar of his coat and his scarf. He looked thoughtful. He had also eaten well, but only partaken a little of the cider, half a glass, perhaps. John looked at him and his quiet, almost pensive expression and bumped against his side playfully.

“You should have drunk more, you know,” he stated. “Wouldn’t do you any harm to loosen up from time to time. Although I guess it wouldn’t take much to make you tipsy, lightweight that you are. Are you okay?”

“Fine.”

John gave him a meaningful glance. “Yeah, right. I totally believe that.”

“I really am, John,” said Sherlock, turning to him. His eyes were dark in the faint light from the few stars peeking out between the clouds racing overhead.

“You’re still worried, though, aren’t you? Come on, I know that look. Is it because of what Liz said, about Victor?”

Sherlock drew a breath and bit his lower lip. Bingo. “Partly,” he admitted at length. “I really didn’t know. What his feelings were. How could I have missed this? His apparent attraction. It must have been obvious when even Liz, a casual acquaintance picked it up. And yet I didn’t. I, John. I didn’t see it.”

John shrugged. “Look at how long it took us to sort ourselves out. These things aren’t easy, even for folks with more experience in the romance department.”

“Yes, and the delay was partly my fault, too. Why do I seem to be particularly blind when it comes to these things? Most people seem to manage without problems. Stupid, inattentive, unobservant people. They easily find a partner, they get married. They end a relationship and start a new one almost immediately. They can read the other’s signals right away. How do they do that when they don’t pay attention to any details, ever? Even if they guess, how can so many guess correctly so often, and end up in a moderately happy relationship without great effort?”

“Well, they guess, but not always correctly. There’s a lot of trial and error involved for most people, and a lot of heartbreak and hard words and disappointments. It’s not that easy, even for us ‘idiots’. I’m speaking from experience here.” He gazed at Sherlock and took in his tense expression. “Sherlock, are you regretting that things between Victor and you turned out the way they did? That you didn’t … get together back then?”

Sherlock was silent for a while, walking slowly. At length his shoulders rose in a slight shrug. “I honestly don’t know. In a way I am, perhaps. It’s not that I considered myself in love with him. It’s just … knowing that he was interested at all.”

“And you’re … upset that you didn’t notice?”

“I’m not upset.”

“Irritated, then?” probed John.

“Confused,” offered Sherlock, kicking at a stone. Apparently feeling John’s gaze on him, he shot him a quick glance and sighed. “I told you before, I’m not used to people being interested in me that way. Romantically. It doesn’t usually happen. And for the most part I didn’t mind.”

“But in Victor’s case you did? Mind, I mean?”

Sherlock made a frustrated sound. “It’s vain, anyway, to dwell on what-ifs. Like what you mentioned before, you not stopping to talk to Mike Stamford that day in Russell Square.”

He stopped, gazing at John intently. “Had you simply walked on, had we never met, I’d have regretted that, in one way or another. But as for Victor ...,” he shrugged again.

“Send him an email. I’m sure he’d appreciate that. Moreover, I’d really like to meet him. Sounds like an interesting bloke.”

Sherlock gazed at him, then nodded slowly. “I’ll consider it. Oh?” he then exclaimed, reaching into the inner pocket of his coat where his phone had started chiming. “Apparently there is reception here.”

“Who is it?” asked John, feeling somewhat sobered up by the fresh air and their conversation, his head feeling less dizzy. He rather minded the interruption of their conversation, though, although clearly Sherlock didn’t, even appreciated the excuse to change the topic.

Sherlock gazed at his phone with a faint frown, having obviously expected another caller. “Dimmock,” he replied, accepting the phone-call. “Yes, speaking. What is it? Oh? Where? Covent Garden? You mean the flower market. When? Right. Send me the details. Yes, I have a laptop here, and should be able to access the internet tonight. Mobile reception is bad around here, though. No, the last train has already left, and moreover the crime scene has already been disturbed by too many people to warrant my immediate arrival. I’ll need to see the body, though, and quickly. I’ll meet you at Bart’s morgue tomorrow morning. The autopsy should be finished by the time we arrive. What else? Are you sure? Now that is interesting. Send me good photographs, both of the body and where he was found, and also the ballistics report as soon as you get it. Right. I’ll be in touch.”

Waiting for Sherlock to terminate the call, John looked at him questioningly. “New body found?” he ventured.

“Yes. At the new Covent Garden flower market near Battersea Power Station. Man, apparently one of the retailers. Dimmock thinks his death is connected to the other florist killed three days ago. What’s interesting about this new one is that it looks like a hit.”

“What?”

“The man was shot, Dimmock thinks a silencer might have been involved. I don’t trust his judgement, but there must be something strange about the victim for even Dimmock to pick it up. He’s sending photos and what information forensics gathered now.”

John nodded. So much for a quiet night in. Not entirely able to quell his disappointment, he asked, “Does that mean you’re working tonight?”

Sherlock was scrolling through his emails on his phone. “Obviously.” Then apparently picking up the slightly dejected tone of John’s statement, he looked up, his pale, lean face illuminated from below by the phone’s bright glow. “Oh,” he muttered softly.

Biting his lip, he gave John an apologetic glance. “I take it you had other plans?” he asked tentatively, some colour rising to his cheeks.

John shrugged. “Nothing definite. I just thought it would be nice to ... you know, cuddle up on that couch. I wouldn’t mind another massage, either. My shoulder’s rather tense after spending so much time in the rain today. I didn’t actually plan further than that. But last night, and particularly this morning ... they were good. Very good.”

“Yes, they were. Well, my bad dream aside, of course,” agreed Sherlock, stepping over to John and running a gloved hand down his cheek. “I’ll make it up to you, another time,” he said gently but convincingly. Drawing back, he went on, “Tonight, however, you should catch what sleep you can. Who knows what else awaits us in London tomorrow. The game, John, is on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The illustration for this chapter is called "[Nighttime stroll](http://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/128327985813/nighttime-stroll-illustration-for-chapter-19-of)":


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ends with a cliffhanger, so if you want to avoid it, I'd advise you to wait until the next chapter is up. Also, there are some non-explicit references to past domestic violence (not between the boys, of course). And there are dead people.

When they arrived at Katie’s, Sherlock fetched his laptop from their room and withdrew into the living room, where he settled down in an armchair near the fireplace.

“He’s going to be like that for a while now,” John explained to Katie when she tried to interest Sherlock in a cup of tea and he ignored her completely. “New case, and an interesting one, too, apparently. There’s a high likelihood he won’t even acknowledge our presence. Even mine.”

For a while, Liz watched Sherlock sitting engrossed in something on the screen, then she shook her head and turned back to John and Katie, who had taken seats at the kitchen table for a nightcap. “He really hasn’t changed a lot since uni. How long have you two been together, if that’s not too forward to ask?”

John blushed a little. “That’s a bit difficult to define, actually. We started out as flatmates, brought together by a mutual friend. And we hit it off right away, as friends. And then ... well, suffice to say things got complicated.”

Liz raised an eyebrow at this and exchanged a glance with Katie. John thought he knew what they were thinking. Men, and what’s more, British men, and talking about emotions. Not a very good combination. He smiled a little sheepishly but did not feel like elaborating.

Instead he said, “And then he faked his suicide to protect me and was gone for nine months. Afterwards, we needed some time to ... you know ... rebuild our friendship. I was furious with him for not telling me about his plans, for letting me believe he was truly dead. I mourned him, had a really rough time. And then he turns up out of the blue. I was that close to hitting him. On the other hand, during the time he was gone, I realised how much in fact I’d lost. More than a friend, even my best friend.”

He shrugged. “I finally admitted to myself that I’d been in love with him all along, only too ... don’t know. It wasn’t really because he’s a bloke. I’m not gay, not ... you know, per se. But it turned out I’m not entirely straight either. I’d just never considered the possibility that he might be interested in that stuff. Relationships, intimacy. All that. On our first evening together, back when we’d first rented the flat, we had this conversation. I believe he thought I was hitting on him. Perhaps I was flirting a bit.”

He thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Yeah, guess I was, actually. But he shot me down immediately, albeit gently, and I never brought up the subject again. He never seemed at all interested in anything physical, not even with a woman he was fascinated by and who was interested in him. Women weren’t his area, he’d claimed, but blokes didn’t seem to be, either. But then he was back, and ... well, things had changed. He had changed, and so had I. We went on this cycling trip to France and finally did the thing most often avoided by British blokes: we talked about ... well ... us. And things got a bit clearer afterwards.”

“As they often do,” stated Liz around a smile. “It’s good to hear that you sorted things out. Can’t be easy with someone like him, though, in combination with someone like you.”

John frowned at her. “What do you mean, someone like me?”

She raised a hand in a soothing gesture. “I don’t mean to offend you, especially because I barely know you, but it seems to me that you’re only now beginning to peek a little out of the closet. Before, like a number of other chaps I’ve met over the years, you might have been wandering around in Narnia for all your denial about your sexual or romantic persuasion. I believe Sherlock, despite all his other quirks and oddities, has been a lot more straightforward in that regard.”

John thought about her words, and although he was still bristling slightly, he knew that she was right. “Sherlock never cares what people think about him in that regard, that’s true. Whenever somebody assumed we were a couple, long before we actually … well … were, he always ignored it, shrugged it off.”

“While you steadfastly denied it, I guess,” prompted Liz.

John flushed in shame. “Yeah,” he admitted. “Come to think of it, I think I hurt Sherlock when I did, particularly after he’d come to terms with the fact that he might not be completely above sentiment as he’d always upheld, and was actually fancying me a bit. But he never said, not until recently. But as I said, he never seemed to have any issue with being considered queer. He only gets annoyed when they assume he’s stupid or got something wrong, when they insult his intellect. But to be honest, I don’t even know what he identifies as.”

“Does it matter?” asked Katie. John thought for a moment, then smiled and shook his head. “Not really.”

His smile grew.

“Sometimes a little more communication from him would be desirable, but that goes for me as well. But as for the rest, I wouldn’t want it any other way. It’s never boring, that’s for sure.”

“John,” called Sherlock from the living room.

John turned to him with a slight groan when his shoulder twinged. “What’s up?”

“I need you professional advice on this gunshot wound.”

The two women exchanged a glance at that. With a sigh, John rose from his chair, stretched carefully, and shuffled over to Sherlock, peering over his shoulder. On the screen, he saw several pictures of an middle-aged man with light-brown hair mostly covered by a beanie knit of dark wool, and a thin, freckled face. He was wearing jeans and a thick woollen jumper under a green apron, and thick-soled shoes. In a wider shot, one could see the position he apparently had been found in: sitting behind a stack of cardboard boxes containing cut flowers, leaning against a wooden crate. John recognised gerbera and anthuriums printed on the boxes.

Apart from the fact that the dead man’s face looked pale and the way his body was slumped against the stack very relaxed, there seemed nothing wrong with him. Just a bloke taking a break. Around him, more flowers could be seen, as well as greens, water buckets and pieces of wrapping material. The photo appeared to have been taken in an out-of-the-way corner of a large hall lit by bright halogen lights.

Sherlock clicked on a closer shot, and John saw what had killed the man. It had been skilfully done, he had to admit. Somebody had shot the victim through his forehead, right through the hatband of his beanie. The entry hole was almost invisible. The dark wool had soaked up most of the blood so that only a thin rivulet of crimson had begun to make its way down his brow and onto the bridge of his nose. Given the fact that the market hall he had been found at served as a trading point for perishable goods, John knew that the wound wouldn’t have bled much due to the cold that reigned in the building. His thick clothing further suggested low temperature at his workplace.

“Do you have a picture of the exit wound as well?” John asked Sherlock, who clicked on another photograph. Not much could be seen. Again the thick hat had served as a kind of buffer. There was a little more blood, seeped into the man’s hair and the collar of his jumper, but not a lot.

“The bullet was found embedded in one of the wooden crates behind him,” explained Sherlock. “According to Dimmock it’s currently being analysed by the ballistics people. What do you think?”

John leaned in closer, frowning at the photos. “Looks like a small calibre. A very precise shot, calculated in a way that would keep it unobtrusive. The hat helped, of course. I’d say it was from a sniper rifle, something one can use over a long distance. Doesn’t look like a handgun. It must have had some power, though, otherwise the projectile would have remained lodged in the skull.”

He more felt than saw Sherlock nod at his side. A quick glance at him revealed his appreciative smile. John was on the right track, then. Feeling encouraged, he went on. “You already mentioned that police thought it was a hit. What made them think so? The nature of the injury?”

“Apparently. Also the fact that a gun was used in the first place, and in such a public area, too.”

John nodded. “When was he found, and what’s the estimated time of death? Do we know?”

Sherlock gave a nod. “According to Dimmock, he was found late this morning – or yesterday morning, rather, it being past midnight now. One of the other traders found him when they were tidying up for that day. Usually, the flower market opens very early in the morning, with retailers and traders setting up shop over night when deliveries come in – much like Smithfield Market, really –, and business winds down at about nine or ten in the morning. He was found around that time, but according to the preliminary estimation of the forensic consultant at the scene, he had been dead for at least three hours."

“Three hours, and nobody notices him?” John asked incredulously. “Neither his absence from his stall, nor his body? Also, that means he would have been shot when many people were around. Can’t believe nobody noticed anything unusual, either about the victim or the shooter.”

Sherlock shrugged. “It is a very busy place, and most people who come there early in the morning are in a hurry and concentrate on business. I’d say it’d be the best time for a stealthy murder. Have you ever been there?”

John shook his head. “Have you?”

“Several times, yes. Very helpful for finding particular types of pollen. They also sell vegetables, but flowers are the main business. Although one can get good pies there.”

“Pies? Since when have you been interested in food?”

Sherlock smiled up at him. “I’m always interested in food. Particularly the stomach contents of murder victims. And it’s helpful to know which restaurant chef shops where, in case one finds unusual substances in guts of dead people who have previously dined at their establishments. Anyway, our body in question was hidden well enough to not be seen. Dimmock is investigating his neighbours at the market, however, and has been questioning everybody who usually has dealings with our dear deceased.”

“Do we know anything more about him?”

“According to Dimmock, he was forty-two, unmarried but with a child from a former relationship. At the market, he went by the name of Bill Kirk, but his real name was Vilhelm van de Kerke.”

“Sounds Dutch.”

“Indeed. He originally hailed from the Netherlands, from Rotterdam. His family has been in the flower business for generations, and according to his records, he had worked as a retailer for over ten years, delivering flowers to Germany and Austria, until he moved to London to be with his then-girlfriend.”

John nodded thoughtfully, before straightening his back with a sigh. Standing bent over to look at the screen had not done it any favours. Sherlock nodded towards the sofa.

“Sit down, if you intend to stay.”

“Do you want me to?” asked John, stretching carefully and rolling his shoulders.

Sherlock gave him a beady look. “Of course. Don’t be silly. You know perfectly well that I think better when I can bounce ideas off you. Conductor of light, remember? My skull isn’t here to serve as a companion. Moreover, it’s a sorry replacement, anyway. I much prefer the original, the one who can talk and make other odd noises, even if his deductions are usually off the mark.” He smirked at John’s scowl before his expression gentled. “And therefore all the more valuable to me.”

John grunted as he settled down on the couch. “That’s nice to hear. And I thought I had to bring you the Totoro from the other room to talk to.”

Sherlock blinked at him. “The what?”

John rolled his eyes. “The stuffed creature on Katie’s shelf that kept you awake two nights ago, you daftie. Deleted it already, have you?”

Sherlock looked thoughtful for a moment. “The one with the cat-bus?” he ventured.

John grinned. “The very. One of these days, we’re going to watch the film.”

Sherlock sighed, tapping something on the keyboard. “Ah yes, another cinematic gem to look forward to.”

John threw a pillow at him, just when Katie stepped through the door. She raised her eyebrows at them, then smiled and went to add two briquets to the fire. “Will you boys be all right? If you’re hungry or thirsty, do help yourself to stuff, okay. Liz is going to stay until tomorrow evening, at least. She wants to have another look at the site. You’re welcome to stay as long as you like, just let me know your plans so I can buy enough food. If you need a lift, let me know, too.”

“We’re fine, thanks, Katie,” John told her. “And I at least would love to stay longer, but with this new case come up, I think we’ll have to return to London tomorrow morning. Right, Sherlock?”

Sherlock nodded distractedly, reading something on the screen. “You can drop us off at Melton or Woodbridge station when you take the children to school tomorrow,” he said without looking up.

John smiled up at Katie and shrugged a little regretfully. “Mathter hath thpoken.”

Sherlock snorted, but with a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Katie winked at John and left, wishing them a good night. Liz waved at them from the kitchen. Sherlock ignored both. John watched him from the sofa for a while, enjoying the warmth from the fireplace and feeling pleasantly tired, but not completely exhausted.

Eventually, Sherlock looked up from the laptop and quirked an eyebrow at John. “What?”

“Nothing. Just watching you think.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Do I make silly faces while I’m thinking, or why are you staring at me like that?”

“No, not very often, at least. Sometimes when you bend your head you suddenly acquire a multitude of chins, which admittedly looks funny, especially because one has to wonder where you usually hide them, slim as you are. But other than that ... no, you don’t look silly. With the right illumination, you look either striking or unusual, or a bit alien. But most of the time, you’re just very beautiful.”

John could see how blood shot into Sherlock’s cheeks. His ears acquired a warm glow. He blinked a few times, then swallowed. John was touched. It always struck him as strange and rather sad that someone as brilliant and gorgeous as Sherlock should be so unused to compliments and affection. As if to confirm his thoughts, Sherlock cast down his eyes in surprising modesty. “That’s not what people usually say, or used to say,” he muttered.

John let out a long breath in pity for his friend, and consternation about his treatment by his peers. “What did they use to say? Did they call you names, back at school?” He remembered Sebastian Wilkes’ remark about how everybody hated Sherlock at university, and he also recalled the glimpses Sherlock had offered about his time at Harrow which told a similar tale.

Sherlock raised his eyes and looked at him steadily. “Of course. They weren’t very creative, however. Usually, I was The Freak. Capital F, always used with an article. They would often talk about me like I wasn’t present. Later they added a list of terms describing my apparent sexual preferences. Not very imaginative, either.”

John nodded sympathetically. “Yeah, I can imagine. Boys aren’t exactly creative when it comes to that. I was lucky not to get bullied too much at school, at least not before Harry came out. Afterwards, there were remarks and such, and I (or Harry) rapped a few people round the ears to make them shut up. I had a few faithful friends who didn’t give a shit whether my sister was a dyke, and I was good at sports – rugby and football, mostly –, so that helped keeping me fairly popular. They did tease me for my size, but it wasn’t too bad, and usually only lasted until I gave them fire for their remarks.”

A thought stuck him, and he gazed at Sherlock contemplatively, only to find Sherlock watching him with an expression he found difficult to read, but which seemed almost amused and a tiny bit exasperated. “Go on, then, ask,” Sherlock invited him. “After all, the question has been on your mind ever since our conversation at Angelo’s the first time we went there.”

John cocked his head, frowning. “What question?”

“You tell me.”  _ Yes, _ thought John,  _ he is definitely amused now. _

“Well,” he ventured, “I know for a fact that you don’t have a girlfriend, but have recently acquired a boyfriend. What else did we talk about that evening? It’s so long ago.” Then he knew. He licked his lips.

“You said, back then, that girlfriends weren’t your area. I assume women in general aren’t, are they? So do you ... identify as gay, then? Did you already back at school and uni?”

Sherlock watched him thoughtfully. “I’ve never liked these labels, John,” he replied at length. “So far, I haven’t found one that completely applies to me. I very rarely find myself attracted to anybody, particularly sexually. You, in fact, are the notable exception, and even with you it was a slow process. I doubt this qualifies as gay. If you want to stick me in a particular drawer, it might be placed somewhere on the asexuality spectrum, although I have to admit that what I’ve read about it seems very vaguely defined and not very applicable – or rather, too broadly applicable. According to what definitions the internet offers in this regard, most people would fall into the asexual category to some degree or other. Look at most marriages, partnerships, relationships. They are rarely based on sexual attraction – however that can be defined, anyway –, and if they were initially it tends to fade over time. Many other components feature into attraction, and the decision to bond with another person. I often wonder why people bother with these labels, anyway. One is who one is.”

“True,” agreed John, “but I guess people do find them helpful. Perhaps if you find a label that applies to you, even vaguely, you feel validated somehow. You feel like you belong because there are others who identify as the same, particularly if it’s very obscure. But you’re right. Often these labels aren’t very precise. I wouldn’t really know what to call myself.” He thought for a moment, then smiled. “Hetero- and Sherlock-sexual, perhaps.”

Sherlock chuckled at this, his eyes twinkling in the firelight. “In this case, I might be John-sexual. Definitely John-romantic. I certainly didn’t fall in love with you because you have the gender I might be slightly more attracted to, or because of some primal hormonal drive, although some biochemicals would inevitably have been involved.”

“Why did you, then?” John enquired before he could stop himself.

Sherlock steepled his hands under his chin and gazed at John gravely. “Because, John Watson, you make a very decent tea and do all the shopping,” he stated with a perfectly straight face.

John gaped at him before bursting into a fit of giggles. He flung another pillow at Sherlock who caught it and threw it back, chuckling.

“You git,” gasped John. “You utter git.”

“Oh, come on, John, you didn’t really expect a disgustingly romantic answer from me, did you?”

“No, I didn’t. Still, you did admit that you’re in love with me. I’ll take that for romance. And just so you know, I’m only keeping you around because running through London with you on our cases is saving me from having to acquire a gym membership to keep fit. There. Oh, and having access to your bank account is helpful, too.”

Sherlock gazed at him fondly. “Glad we settled this. Now, let us return to the unfortunate Mr. van de Kerke, unless you want to interrogate me some more about my sexual or romantic preferences.”

“I think I’ll further investigate those in a field trial once this case has been solved,” John replied nonchalantly, pleased to see Sherlock swallow and his pupils dilate.

He cleared his throat. “Yes, that sounds like a very proper and scientific approach. I approve. Now, Mr. Kerke.”

John nodded. “So far, you’ve only told me what the police found out about him. But what do  _ you  _ see? Can’t imagine they didn’t miss anything which you, however, spotted.”

Sherlock smiled. Drawing himself up slightly, he unloaded his pent-up deduction on John, who sat and listened to Kerke’s betting preferences, his regular visits to the Netherlands, the fact he had played football with his neighbours on Sundays and bred rare corals and water plants for aquarists, that he had donated and arranged flowers for services in his local parish every second Saturday evening, how he had been fond of taking his child to the Zoo or the London Aquarium on those weekends he’d been looking after her.

John smiled after he had finished his deduction. “Brilliant, as usual. The bit with the water plants ... how on earth did you deduce this? Did he have spots of a particular fertiliser on his cuffs or something?”

Sherlock preened at his praise. “If you look closely, in this photo you can see a clipboard with several sheets of paper lying on top of one of the flower cartons. The topmost sheet is a list of customers and their orders, mostly florists in the Kensington area – Kerke was living in Notting Hill. On the bottom of that list, you can see a name scrawled in what appears to be Kerke’s handwriting, next to several botanic ones. So apparently he was selling things on the side, and had noted down a special order. I looked up the botanical names, and they all turned out to be water plants.”

John shook his head, grinning. Then he looked up at Sherlock. “Sounds like a fairly normal bloke to me. Why would anybody assassinate him, if that’s what happened – and the evidence so far does point in that direction. Oh ... wait a moment. Wasn’t the other florist found murdered also in Kensington? And how can an average flower dealer afford to live in Notting Hill? He’d need a fairly large place, too, if he’s got several water tanks standing round for his plants and corals. Does he offer them online?”

“That’s what I’m going to find out next,” Sherlock stated happily. John watched him and his excitement fondly, before suppressing a yawn. “So what’s the plan for tomorrow? Catch an early train back to London, then go to Bart’s to have a look at Kerke’s body? What then? Search his place?”

“Yes. It’d like to visit the market, too, and look for possible vantage points the shooter may have occupied. It must have been a professional, to execute a hit in such a busy place and not be noticed. We need to pass by the Yard to see what evidence they have gathered so far. And what they have missed, of course. Dimmock is not the most observant of officers.”

“True. What about DI Gregson and his case? Won’t we have to see Sommersby, too, when he’s released from hospital?”

Sherlock nodded. “We can pass by Chelsea Hospital on our way to Kensington. Can you take the rest of the week off work?”

“I’ll try. They won’t be happy, but perhaps it’ll work if I agree to be on call, should they be swamped with flu victims. I’ll send them an email. For now, I hope you’ll excuse me. I’ll have a quick hot shower, and then it’s bed for me.”

Sherlock nodded absently, once more engrossed in something on the laptop. John rose with a groan and padded over to him, running a gentle hand through his tousled curls. “Try not to stay up all night, okay,” he told him. Sherlock sighed, but accepted the quick peck on the lips. With a last squeeze of his shoulder, John left him to his research.

 

**- <o>-**

 

He woke briefly at what turned out to be three twenty when Sherlock slid under the covers next to him and brushed his cold feet against John’s legs when he snuggled closer. John smiled to himself and fell asleep right away.

He was woken properly by a knock at the door. Grey twilight was creeping into the room. Sherlock was still with him, spooning him with his arm draped loosely over his torso, his breathing deep and even against the hairs of John’s neck. He roused slightly when the knock was repeated and Katie opened the door a sliver to peek inside.

“Morning,” she greeted John softly round a warm smile. “Sorry for waking you, but I’ll be taking Emma to school in an hour, and I thought you may want to wash up, pack and have some breakfast.”

John ran a hand over his face, feeling all but awake. Sherlock’s arm squeezed his middle and he made a snuffling noise. “Thanks. We’ll be ready.”

Sherlock groaned and burrowed deeper into his pillow. Grinning, John turned so he could look at him. “Good morning,” he greeted him cheerfully. “What’s the matter with you today. There’s a case on and you’re lazing in bed?”

Sherlock opened one beady eye. “I ate too much yesterday. Too much food, fresh air, the countryside. It’s exhausting.”

“We’ll be back in London in a couple of hours, unless you remain in bed.”

Sherlock sighed, finally lifted his head and opened both eyes. The weave of the pillow was imprinted on his cheek. John leaned forward and kissed him briefly before scrambling off the sofa to begin pack his clothes and find fresh underwear for the day.

“Any further ideas in the florist case?” he asked.

Sherlock shook his head as he ran a hand through his wild hair. “We have to wait for the coroner’s report and what ballistics can tell us. I’d like to talk to Kerke’s neighbours, both at his flat and his stall at the market. According to what is said about him online, he was a well-liked man. Not even his ex-girlfriend, the mother of his child, speaks ill of him. She has the full custody of the girl, but Kerke saw her almost every fortnight. So far, the only possibly shady thing about him is his Notting Hill flat. He bought it when he first arrived in the UK. It’s a former council flat, but it wouldn’t have been cheap even then, and its value has risen considerably over the past decade.”

“Was anybody interested in the place, perhaps?” mused John. “These days, they’re turning flats like that into luxury apartments everywhere from what one hears, because that’s where the money lies. Perhaps someone wanted the flat and Kerke refused to sell. Or he’s also involved in this smuggling ring. Did the police confiscate his flowers and check them for hidden drugs, as were found at that Kensington florist?”

“I reminded Dimmock to look into the matter. I hope he has done so. He’s not that stupid, however, or so one should hope, and moreover he has learned that it is wise for all involved to take my word for gospel and act accordingly.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

Liz was also at breakfast and reading something on her phone. She promised Sherlock to keep him updated about the barrow and its findings, once an archaeological excavation was under way. “Won’t be before next year, however,” she told him. “First I need to organise funding. What we’re likely going to do is to try and secure what has been excavated so far, and to make sure the rest is protected from the elements over winter, and against further disturbance by humans or animals. I can’t believe these idiots simply dug a hole into the side. I’d love a chat with this Sommersby chap about proper procedure when excavating a historic site.”

Sherlock assured her that she was going to get her chance. They parted exchanging contact details, and then they were on their way to Woodbridge. Katie dropped them off at the station. Both she and Emma hugged John and a surprised Sherlock firmly and thanked them effusively. “You’re always welcome to stay over should you need a rural break from the big city,” said Katie.

“Or if you need some really dark chocolate,” Emma told Sherlock with a wink, at which he inclined his head in recognition and gratitude.

“And you and Emma should visit when you’re in town,” John invited her. Sherlock sighed at this, rolling his eyes. “Can we please get a move on. You still have to buy the tickets, John.”

John cast a doubtful glance at the ticket machine. “Yeah, because I’m so very good with these things.” He shook Katie’s hand one last time and waved to her as she and Emma returned to her battered Volvo, before digging out his wallet and approaching the dratted machine.

They got their tickets, and managed to board the train in time. Sherlock grumbled about the lack of internet connection. This improved once they changed onto a high-speed train at Ipswich, and he spent the rest of the journey corresponding with both Gregson and Dimmock about their respective cases.

Once they’d reached Liverpool Street Station, Sherlock procured them a cab to get them to Bart’s. John reckoned they would have been faster had they taken the Tube or even walked, because the City was completely jammed. In the end, the cabbie dropped them off near St. Paul’s and they walked the last bit. John praised the fact that their luggage was fairly light and manageable.

 

**- <o>-**

 

Molly greeted them with excitement, and when Sherlock descended upon the body of Vilhelm van de Kerke, she took John aside to quiz him about Katie and her case. He gave her a brief account, promising to write up a more detailed one for his blog once he had some time.

Then Sherlock called for his assistance, and the next two hours were spent looking at tissue samples, stomach contents and trajectories of projectiles. Dimmock joined them eventually, bringing with him a long list of witness statements from the flower market – though not exactly eyewitness accounts, since nobody had seen the actual shooting, nor heard it over the din of the marketplace. He had also been at Kerke’s flat and confirmed Sherlock’s deduction about the water plants. His account also fortified the impression John had of Kerke being an ordinary, hard-working, fairly popular bloke. His flowers had been analysed, too, but no trace of drugs had been found in their stems or their packaging. Kerke had delivered flowers to the shop in Kensington the other body had been found at, but only sporadically. No connection to the other deceased had so far been found.

Sherlock listened to Dimmock’s account and read the statements, as well as looking at photos of the flat. “There is something we’ve all been missing so far,” he mused as he sat surrounded by evidence, his hands steepled in front of his face in his habitual thinking pose.

“ _ We _ ?” asked John. “You mean you as well?”

Sherlock shook himself slightly, looking irritated. “Yes, obviously. Otherwise I would have solved the case already.”

“Perhaps Kerke wasn’t the intended victim,” ventured Dimmock. “The killer may have simply hit the wrong person, either because they confused him, or the shot went wild.”

“The shot didn’t ‘go wild’,” growled Sherlock disdainfully. “It was incredibly precise, and very skilfully executed. We’re dealing with a true professional here.” He frowned for a moment, before his expression changed. “Oh,” he whispered.

John stepped closer to him. “Got anything?” asked Dimmock excitedly.

Sherlock shook his head slightly, still deep in thought. “Not yet. But there may be another possibility we so far haven’t taken into account.”

He sat up straighter. “John, I need you to meet Gregson at the Yard and finish the Sommersby case. You were the one he attacked, after all.

“He attacked you as well,” protested John. Sherlock looked at him imploringly and he sighed. “What are you going to do in the meantime.”

“I’m going to new Covent Garden Flower Market to have a look around. Business should be mostly done for today, but some of the traders may still be about. I also need to ... contact a few people. I know some folks who usually hang out in the Battersea area. Perhaps they saw something. How much cash have you got?”

John rolled his eyes and handed him seventy pounds. “What about our luggage?” he asked, not happy about parting ways with Sherlock, despite knowing that this way, they were going to be working more efficiently. Sherlock was likely about to contact his homeless network, which he preferred to do on his own because many of them did not trust outsiders. John did not really consider himself one, but he didn’t want to interfere with Sherlock’s valuable source of information, either.

“You can leave your stuff here,” offered Molly.

John glanced at her briefly and sighed. “Thanks. I’ll be round later to fetch it.”

Something was nagging him, making him reluctant to let Sherlock hare off on his own. Perhaps, he reasoned, it was just because they’d spent so much time together lately and he’d gotten used to having Sherlock close virtually all the time, while during a regular week in London he’d be spending long hours at work and only see his flatmate in the evening and sometimes morning, if Sherlock was already (or still) up when John left for the surgery.

He hadn’t heard back from his colleagues about his enquiry whether he could take the rest of the week off, and decided to pass by the place on his way to the Yard to talk to Jagati in person and explain about his accident, which he’d mentioned as the reason for his request.

Sherlock was typing something on his phone with Dimmock hovering nearby looking rather out of place and waiting for orders, like an excited dog waiting for a stick to be thrown. Sherlock looked up and gave him an arch glance. “Don’t you have an investigation to lead, Detective Inspector? I’m going to meet you at Kerke’s flat after noon. I’ll text you when I leave the market. Should give you sufficient time to get to Notting Hill. See if you can get the ballistics report in the meantime. I need to know the make of the bullet and the gun.”

Dimmock nodded, looked uncertain for a moment, likely at being ordered about by a civilian, then making a fluttering gesture, he picked up his jacket and turned to leave. Molly gave John a meaningful glance before busying herself with covering up the body again. John stepped over to Sherlock.

“There’s something you know or suspect that you’re not telling,” he accused him. Sherlock switched off his phone and returned it to the inner pocket of his jacket. He raised an eyebrow in challenge.

“And what would that be?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t confront you about it. Something about the shooter, perhaps. This whole case, it’s weird. It doesn’t make sense. But I suspect you already deduced more about Kerke and his connections than you let on.”

Sherlock returned John’s intense glare for a moment before casting down his eyes. “I do have some theories, but you know that I’m generally reluctant to reveal them until I have more information. I may know more after speaking to my contacts and having had a look at Kerke’s flat.”

John licked his lips. “Just ... don’t keep me out of the loop, okay. And be careful.”

“John ...,”

“I mean it.” Suddenly, he knew what had been bothering him. He stepped even closer and lowered his voice. “This shooter ... do you think it could have been Moran?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed very briefly, but it gave him away. “There are many skilled assassins in London, John,” he reminded him. “But yes, if Moran wanted to ensure my attention, he’d stage an execution like this. Still, I can’t see what else would be in it for him. He had plenty of opportunities to dispose of me during my time abroad and didn’t take them. If he wanted my attention now, he could simply contact me, or even come to Baker Street. It’s too early to make any assumptions about his potential involvement in this case. In fact, I believe it’s rather unlikely.”

John laid a hand to his arm. “Still, you  _ will  _ be careful,” he asked imploringly. 

Sherlock sighed, but covering John’s hand with his own, he squeezed it once. “Yes. You too.”

John gave a curt nod and stepped back. “Come by Scotland Yard on your way from the market, and we can go to Kerke’s flat together.”

Sherlock looked at him with mild exasperation but agreed.

 

**- <o>-**

 

The waiting room at the surgery was brimming with patients, causing John a bad conscience when he wound his way through their ranks to reach a harried-looking Dorothy, who seemed happy to see him until he told her that he wasn’t coming in to work.

“Couldn’t you stay for at least an hour or two?” she begged. “Just to cover lunch break so that Dr. McCallum and Dr. Brown can have a bite to eat? Dr. Gopal is currently interviewing someone to be our new nurse, meaning she’s not taking patients, either.”

John cast another glance at the pale and stressed faces of the patients, the snivelling child on her father’s lap, the two old ladies bent with arthritis, the construction worker with a preliminary cast on his arm that needed to be checked, and the green-faced young man who had barely made it to the toilet to throw up and looked like he was going to have to dash again in a few minutes. John sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Is there a free room?” he asked, and Dorothy beamed.

 

**- <o>-**

 

Sherlock didn’t seem bothered when John informed him about the change of plan. He just texted back a brief  _ Okay, _ which indicated to John that he was busy. John spent the next three hours dealing with runny noses, upset stomachs and chest pains, a cat bite and a twisted ankle. When Alastair peeked in to inform him that he was back from lunch, John stretched and washed his hands, before fetching his jacket.

The waiting room had emptied considerably, making John feel good about his decision to help out.

“It’s not going to be any different tomorrow,” predicted Dorothy darkly, giving him a meaningful glance. John licked his lips. “I’ll try and do at least a few hours,” he promised, then looked up when the door of Jagati’s office opened and she stepped out with a blonde woman of about John’s age in tow.

“Oh hey, John,” his boss greeted him cheerfully. “Thanks for helping out despite your fall. Hope it’s not too bad. This is our new nurse, Mary Morstan. Mary, this is Dr. Watson. He’s doing locum work – when he’s not fighting crime with his partner, a famous detective,” she added with a wink at John, who rolled his eyes.

John exchanged a firm handshake with Mary. She looked him up and down and smiled. “Pleased to meet you ... John. Now I know why your face seemed familiar. I think I’ve read about you in the papers.”

Jagati grinned. “Yes, he is rather famous, too, our John. Sadly, running around London trying to catch murderers and thieves keeps him from coming here more regularly. But needs must, I guess. You should have a look at his blog, Mary. Good stuff.”

Jagati winked again, smiling good-naturedly at John. “Say hello to your detective from me, and tell him to look after you better and not let you fall off horses and other things in the future.”

John saluted. “I will. Good to meet you, Mary. See you tomorrow, I guess. I’m off now.”

“To catch another criminal?” asked Mary teasingly.

“No, he’s already been caught. I have to give a statement at Scotland Yard. Bye, ladies.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

He found Sherlock at Dimmock’s office, pacing and gesticulating wildly while Dimmock sat behind his desk with a weary expression, holding on to a cup of coffee like a lifeline, which likely it was.

“Why is it virtually impossible for you and your underlings to run an investigation in a way that is both efficient and fast?” Sherlock wanted to know, spinning round to face Dimmock with a thunderous expression, the tails of his coat flying. “It’s easy enough to trace the trajectory of the bullet, and yet none of your minions managed to secure the area. They didn’t even search the right place. Now of course what evidence the shooter may have left behind has been destroyed. The area should have been cordoned off right away.”

“Mr. Holmes, I do agree with you,” Dimmock defended himself in a tired, resigned voice, “but to be honest, we simply don’t have the resources at the moment. I completely agree that investigations like these should be conducted differently, but with all the budget cuts lately, and the reduction of personnel we neither have the manpower nor the means to screen a quarter of Covent Garden Flower Market for DNA samples that may or may not belong to our killer. It simply can’t be done. I’m already using whatever resources I may, and I’m letting you in, despite the Chief Superintendent’s reservations. So please, don’t make things more difficult for all involved. We’re really doing what we can.”

Sherlock turned away from him with a contemptuous snort. His expression brightened slightly when he saw John stand in the doorway. “Finally,” he announced. “Ready to inspect Kerke’s flat?”

“Sure,” said John. Dimmock sighed, emptied the last dregs of his coffee and pushed himself to his feet.

“Let’s go, then,” he said.

 

**- <o>-**

 

The abode of the late Vilhelm van de Kerke was situated on the ground floor of a three storied Victorian building in a quiet side street not far from Notting Hill Gate Tube station. Judging from the pram and the two small bicycles stacked in the corridor, the two upper flats were occupied by young families. The door of Kerke’s place had been cordoned off with police tape, which Dimmock removed.

“I can give you ten minutes,” he announced.

“May need more,” came Sherlock’s curt reply as he stepped over the threshold. Dimmock sighed again and motioned for John to enter, before shutting the door behind them.

The flat was surprisingly large and yet seemed cramped, which was largely due to the number of water tanks that made up the living room area and half of the kitchen. Most of them were lit, casting the flat in an eery, halogen light with hints of UV, which, John thought, couldn’t have been entirely healthy for the occupant.

Stepping closer to the tanks, he peered through the glass. Some contained corals and an assortment of reef-dwelling sea-creatures of the mollusk persuasion, while others housed what looked like tropical water plants. In a corner, several empty tanks were stacked inside one another, together with filters and heating equipment, fertiliser and fish food, small nets and containers for transporting and mailing specimens.

Sherlock gave the tanks a cursory glance, his eyes lingering on the one containing an assortment of reef-dwellers that was situated against one of the walls before moving on into the kitchen, where he checked the fridge and looked through several of the cupboards before descending upon the cork notice board attached to one of them.

“Has this place been screened for fingerprints?” he enquired of Dimmock who nodded.

“A few samples have been taken, but they were all Kerke’s.”

Sherlock nodded while perusing the notes stuck to the board and writing down a few names and numbers into his small notebook.

“That means whoever broke in here was careful enough to wear gloves and other protective gear,” he mused.

Dimmock’s head shot up at this. “Broke in? There were no signs of a break-in.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pointed towards the living room. “As always, you see but you don’t observe. Somebody has been in here apart from Mr. Kerke recently. I would hazard a guess that they came when he was at work and perhaps already dead. Did your talk with the neighbours, particularly the two upstairs occupants, reveal whether any tradespeople have been in here recently?”

Dimmock checked his notebook. “Er ... yes, actually. Mrs. Wilkins from the first floor flat had an electrician in yesterday to check her metre. They did have proper documentation, however.”

“Could have been faked.”

“What makes you think anybody broke in here?” Dimmock wanted to know. “And what did they do here? Nothing looked disturbed or out of place when we arrived yesterday.”

Sherlock sighed dramatically. “The lock of the flat’s door barely offers any resistance to the skilled burglar. In fact, I believe they actually had a key. So no marks of a break-in there. However, if you’d kindly step over here, you’ll see that this tank here has recently been moved. There are clear marks on the carpet indicating where it used to stand, and has been standing for a long time judging from the depth of the imprints and the fact that the carpet is slightly bleached by sunlight elsewhere, but not where the tank used to stand. But somebody shifted it, and with some force or impatience, too, enough to make water slosh out. You can still see the stains, visible because of the faint salt marks from the seawater. Moreover, whoever shifted it had to unplug it because the cable wasn’t long enough. Look at the corals. They are dying from lack of ventilation, and the water has begun to dim because the filter has been switched off. Now look where the tank used to stand. What can you see?”

“It covered the fireplace,” said John.

Sherlock flashed him a brief smile. “Exactly. A fireplace that clearly hasn’t been lit in years. There are no traces of soot, no fuel. In fact, Kerke seems to have used it as extra storage space for the plastic boxes he shipped his specimens in. But whoever moved the tank took those out and placed them on the armchair in the corner. Have them checked for prints, Dimmock, although I doubt you’re going to find any other than Kerke’s. Still, better be circumspect.”

Sherlock stepped closer to the fireplace, winding his way through the tanks until he was able to kneel down in front of the grate. Withdrawing his magnifier, he bent down and began to inspect the darkened bricks.

“John, I need more light,” he announced. John searched his pockets for his small torch before remembering that he had left it in his rucksack at Bart’s. Withdrawing his mobile, he switched it on and selected the torch function, before handing the phone to Sherlock.

“Found anything?”

Sherlock nodded. “Oh yes. Someone has pulled out one of the bricks. There is mortar dust in the grate. Several of the bricks show scratches and other traces of tools being used on them. Let’s see ... John, can you squeeze in here and hold the phone? I need both hands to try and remove this brick.”

John hunkered down next to him. There wasn’t a lot of space, but with some slight jostling he managed. Sherlock began to tap several of the bricks with his magnifier. The John’s ears they all sounded alike, but apparently Sherlock heard something because he withdrew his pocket knife and began to remove one of the bricks in the side wall of the fireplace.

Whistling softly and smiling knowingly, he then reached inside. There appeared to be a hollow space behind the brick. But Sherlock’s hand came out empty. Whatever had been hidden in the secret space, it was gone.

“It was to be expected,” said Sherlock, withdrawing from the fireplace. “But I think it’s safe to assume that something was hidden there, some small, fireproof box, perhaps. The mortar round the removable stone looked different from that with was originally used to build the fireplace. I’ll have to analyse respective samples. But I reckon that Kerke hid something there, and whoever came to retrieve it knew exactly where to look for it. Dimmock, see if you can obtain CCTV footage of this house. And find out more about the electrician. Also, you need to investigate how Kerke came by this flat. Who owned it before him? Who did he buy it from, how did he pay?”

“Do you believe he was involved in some kind of criminal activity after all?” asked John. “A heist, perhaps, that enabled him to buy this flat?”

“It’s possible, even likely. Or perhaps the former owner of this place hid something in the fireplace and finally came to retrieve it.”

“Why wait so long? Kerke has been living here for ten years.”

Sherlock shrugged, brushing mortardust from his coat. “Perhaps they were out of the country, or otherwise detained. Dimmock, check who has recently been released from prison, especially after spending time there for robbery or burglary.”

Rubbing his hands together, Sherlock smiled happily. “Oh, this is going to be good.”

John grinned at him, glad to see him so delighted and excited.

 

**- <o>-**

 

Sadly, the next few days didn’t continue in that fashion. The Sommersby case wound down after both John and Sherlock had given their statements and Sommersby confessed his misdeeds. Sherlock was kept informed by both Gregson about the London investigations, and Ipswich Constabulary about their progress in Suffolk.

But Kerke’s murder remained a mystery overall. There were few further leads worth investigating, even from Sherlock’s homeless network. No witness who had seen the shooter or anything unusual the day Kerke had been shot came forward, the electrician who had come to his house to read the metre turned out to be a regular, his background checks immaculate. What could be retrieved and restored of CCTV from the flower market remained inconclusive. None existed of his flat or even the street the house was on. At the market, too many people had been caught on camera laden with things which could have been a tripod or parts of a sniper rifle, but the grainy images did not hold any definite clues. No link could be established with the Kensington florist murder, the culprit of which was found a day after the Kerke murder. He turned out to be a professional hitman for one of the Russian gangs controlling the drug trade from the Netherlands. Dimmock was happy about catching him and wringing a confession out of him, and subsequently invested less energy into the Kerke case, much to Sherlock’s chagrin. The hitman vehemently denied killing Kerke, and even Sherlock who was called in to witness his interrogation had to admit that it was highly unlikely that the man was lying.

He was still completely hooked on the case, however, and the more complicated and mysterious it got, the more leads dissolved into thin air, the more determined he seemed to try and solve it. His levels of frustration and irritation, unfortunately, rose exponentially. Had John hoped for their relationship to retain the intimacy of their time in Suffolk, he was in for a disappointment. Sherlock was in total case-mode, forgoing eating, talking, sleeping for long periods of time. John had to almost force some tea, fruit and biscuits into him at fairly regular intervals. He counted it a massive achievement when Sherlock actually ate half a bowl of soup and a slice of whole-grain toast on Saturday while poring over mortar samples from Kerke’s fireplace for what seemed to be the tenth time.

Other than that, Sherlock mostly ignored John, tapping away at his computer or staring at the screen to review the CCTV yet again, pacing up and down in front of the case collage of maps, photographs, print-outs of witness statements and forensic analysis, and handwritten notes detailing his own research and experiments he had pinned to the wall above the sofa, only sparing the smiley face that grinned between blurry face-shots of witnesses, photos of Kerke’s gunshot wound, trajectory simulations of missiles from various sniper rifles and other bric-a-brac, all scribbled on with black marker in Sherlock’s messy handwriting.

When it became clear that John could not help him with the case, not even by functioning as a sounding board for Sherlock to bounce ideas off, John took up his regular shifts at the surgery again. Here at least he worked with a sense of accomplishment, feeling he had done some good at the end of the day. He couldn’t shake a feeling of disappointment and abandonment, even resentment, though. Yes, the Work was important to Sherlock and would always be. John was okay with that. Despite often grumbling about it, he valued his own job, too, especially now when it took him out of the tense atmosphere of the flat.

But after their time in Suffolk he had hoped that Sherlock’s priorities might have shifted a little. In all fairness, Sherlock had repeatedly tried to warn him of exactly the situation they were in now. Perhaps John had simply been too infatuated to believe him, had upheld a romanticised, fluffy image of their relationship, an idealised vision that did not hold up to reality? After all, Sherlock was just being himself. And John had known him long enough to anticipate what he was getting himself into, despite the fact that the Fall and their subsequent separation had changed Sherlock, and John as well. And hadn’t John claimed, repeatedly, that he loved him despite – or even for – his quirks and imperfections? Well, here was his chance to swallow his own issues and be true to his word.

So he tried not to be too gruff with Sherlock, not to nag him to much. He almost cherished the hours at the surgery, particularly those spent reacquainting himself with his regular patients and his colleagues, and getting to know the new nurse.

Mary was working on trial. She turned out to be competent and easy-going, fitting in well into the informal, familial atmosphere of the place. During one lunch break they got chatting over tea and sandwiches, and John learned that she had spent some time abroad in the US, Australia and other places, spoke several languages – although she claimed it was tourist level at best for some of them –, baked her own bread, hated the Tories, had a tattoo – although she wouldn’t tell him where –, and had recently, but apparently amiably, split up with her boyfriend of two years, David.

John liked her. It was easy to talk to her. She had indeed looked him up online, and questioned him about his cases with Sherlock she had found on his blog. “He seems a fascinating man,” she said, “and a nightmare to live with,” she then added with a wink.

John sighed, emptying his cup with one draught, and remembering his slight row with Sherlock before he left because Sherlock had once more slept on the sofa, and only, if the shadows under his eyes and his general pale- and reediness were anything to go by – for a few hours, and John had scolded him for it, reminding him to eat, and for God’s sake, shower and put on fresh clothes. Sherlock had taken this ill, huffed contemptuously and told John that there were more important things than showers and fresh underwear. John had left fuming, and indeed barely able to contain himself, with Sherlock sulking in his chair torturing his violin. On the Tube, he recalled that the last time they’d kissed had been on the day they returned from Suffolk, and his anger was replaced by sadness and a slight yet nagging worry about the future.

“Yeah,” he admitted to Mary, “it can be a challenge.”

Apparently sensing his frustration, she reached out and patted his hand. John blinked in surprise at the gesture. Mary withdrew her hand as if nothing had happened. She rose to take their cups to the sink and rinse them. “Perhaps you just need some distraction – and he, too,” she mused. “Get him a case that he can solve easily to take his mind off the one he’s stuck at, perhaps?”

John smiled at her. “That’s a pretty good idea, actually. Thanks. I’ll try that.”

Watching Mary, he was struck with how things might have turned out had he met her under different circumstances.  _ Without being in love with Sherlock,  _ his mind supplied. Mary was intelligent with a remarkable memory so that already on the second day she’d known the names of most of the regular patients and their histories. She was funny with a dark, snarky kind of humour. Pretty, too, not conventionally so, but confident in her own skin. John knew that without Sherlock, she was someone he could imagine falling in love with, starting a relationship and even a family. But as things were ...

He thought of what awaited him at home and sighed. Who was he fooling, he had known that things weren’t going to continue the way they had been in Suffolk, with Sherlock relaxed and even cheerful, dressing casually and enjoying a horse-ride and a cuddle. John did not doubt that Sherlock’s affection for him was genuine. Even though he had mostly kipped on the couch for the past few nights (if he had slept at all), two nights ago, Sherlock had crept into John’s bed between two and three. John had woken up briefly to find Sherlock wrapped around him like a gangly octopus, either asleep or so deep in thought that he didn’t react to John calling him softly. John had settled back into his embrace, glad about the contact and hoping Sherlock was going to stay put. But when his alarm woke him at seven, Sherlock had already left again, his spot in the bed cold. Once again, John told himself not to be too disappointed about it. After all, now they were back in London, Sherlock was paying homage to his first love, the Work, although this relationship seemed strained at the moment, too.

Reaching for his mobile, John sent a text to Lestrade, asking him whether he had any recent or even cold cases he could involve Sherlock in to take his mind off the other one.

Lestrade’s reply came almost immediately:

_John, Dimmock asked me the same. Sherlock has been driving him mad with requests and criticism. I’ll see what I can do. Dimmock is about to explode, or implode, in his case. I’ve just been informed that a body has been found in a garden up in Golders Green. I’ll let you know if it turns out to be anything worthy of Himself’s attention. Greg_

Somewhat relieved, John said goodbye to Mary and returned to his room to deal with another herd of patients.Three hours later, he went home after a trip to the supermarket. To his surprise and further relief, Sherlock had indeed showered, if the somewhat tamer state of his hair was anything to go by, and donned clothes he hadn’t been wearing for three days straight. He’d shaved, too.

“And I’ve eaten,” he announced when John gave him a once over where he stood on the threshold to the living room. John raised a doubtful eyebrow.

“What? We barely had food in the house.” He jingled the shopping bags.

“Mrs. Hudson brought cake,” said Sherlock, indicating a plate of muffins on the new kitchen table (which John had set up with no help from his flatmate, because he had forbidden Sherlock from handling flatpack furniture or any tools needed for assembling it for fear of a repeat of the Great Shelf Massacre of 221C).

“Cake isn’t proper food, despite these containing pumpkin,” John informed him. “I’ll cook something, okay. The thing with peas? And some fish and chips?”

Sherlock sighed, turning back to his case wall. “All right,” he muttered at last, thus indicating to John that he was really hungry despite the muffins, and perhaps also to show that he was sorry about his behaviour these past few days.

John put away the shopping, then started to prepare dinner. Eventually, Sherlock sidled up to him and peered over his shoulder. Then he sniffed and stepped back with a faint noise of disgust.

“You smell of perfume, John,” he stated accusingly. He leaned in to take another whiff. “Chanel? No. Less classy. Claire-de-la-Lune, I think.”

John smelled at the sleeve of his jumper. He could only detect smells of the surgery, of London Transport, and of the food he was preparing over a faint scent of laundry detergent. Then he remembered Mary.

Sherlock was frowning at him. “Could have been worn by a patient, but I think it was the new nurse at your surgery. Interesting person, is she?” he asked archly.

John put down the spoon with a clank. “Yes, she is. We had lunch together.”

“Lunch,” sneered Sherlock contemptuously. “I see.”

John turned to him fully and glared up into the pale eyes, now narrowed in disdain.

“Yes, Sherlock, lunch. Not all of us can exist on a muffin every other day.”

“Two.”

“What?”

“I ate two. And a satsuma.”

John snorted. “And I had a bloody sandwich and a cup of tea with Mary, and she told me about her travels and her bread-baking and her ex. Satisfied?” He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “Sherlock, are you jealous?”

Sherlock drew himself up haughtily. “Do I have reason to be?”

“Yes, of course. I had lunch with a colleague. We’re going to be having triplets next. Jesus, Sherlock, is this how it’s going to be? You getting jealous whenever I exchange a word with a woman? You spent the past few days almost exclusively with your spouse. You really shouldn’t be complaining.”

Sherlock frowned. “My spouse?” He looked confused.

“Married to your work?” prompted John.

“Oh.”

“Yes. Now shut up and peel the potatoes.”

Hesitantly, Sherlock stepped next to John and took the proffered peeler and spud. For a while, they worked in silence, Sherlock peeling potatoes and John preparing the batter for the fish.

At length, Sherlock cleared his throat. “I apologise.” John knew it wasn’t just for his little scene about the perfume.

John let out a breath. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. I have been neglecting you in favour of the Work. That is true. I am sorry. The trouble is, I can’t even promise you that it won’t happen again. I did warn you, however.”

John wiped his hands on a towel and reached out for one of Sherlock’s, which he took and squeezed reassuringly.

“So you did. And I told you before, it’s fine. I don’t really mind when you’re engrossed in your work. I know you love it. It’s only when it gets intense and frustrating like now, when you’re stuck and forget to look after yourself, that I begin to worry. But I’d never look for anybody one the side, Sherlock. I promised you to stick with you, and I intend to keep that promise.”

Sherlock bit his lip, swallowed and nodded. “Sometimes, I wish I had more experience with this stuff,” he waved his hand vaguely. “Relationships and all that.”

John smiled wearily. “Believe me, it doesn’t help much.”

They spent the rest of the preparations and the meal itself in companionable silence. John was pleased to see Sherlock eat heartily. Some of his pallor vanished after two cups of tea. John was about to wash up and keep Sherlock at his side to dry the dishes by questioning him about any new leads in the Kerke case when Sherlock’s phone chimed.

“It’s Lestrade. A body has been found in Golders Green. Looks like an accident: man fell off ladder while picking fruit in the garden and broke his neck. Seems fairly straightforward. But Lestrade wants me to have a look regardless, to rule out murder – or confirm it.”

John glanced at his watch. It was already eight o’clock. Dusk had long fallen. He glanced at Sherlock. “You want to go?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Seems hardly more than a two, but since you and Lestrade have likely conspired to find me something to distract me from the other case, I should do you the favour and go. Unless you want to stay in.”

John shook his head. “Just need the loo, then we can be off. Did Lestrade give you the address?”

“Yes.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

The address turned out to be a detached brick house on the northern outskirts of Golders Green. John knew the area fairly well from their cycling trips. The deceased was a certain Walter Herdman, 72, retired owner of a company that manufactured car parts. He had been picking late apples in the small orchard behind the house, and, according to his wife Sheila, 70, fallen off the ladder, hitting his head and breaking his neck. She had called him in for tea, but he hadn’t responded, so she had gone and looked what he was up to and found him lifeless in the grass.

“His neck was cricked somewhat strangely,” she told Lestrade, John and Sherlock when they joined her in her large kitchen after a brief tour of the garden where the wicked ladder still lay tipped over amidst fallen apples, upturned buckets and several wooden crates of fruit. Sherlock had been complaining about Mrs. Herdman, the ambulance and lastly police trampling the grass and obliterating all potential traces.

“Well,” said Lestrade, patting her hand because she had been weeping again, “the ground is pretty soggy, and the ladder doesn’t look exactly safe. Perhaps he forgot to fasten it properly, or he leaned out too much and it capsized. We will have to wait for the coroner’s report, Mrs. Herdman, but I think it will be ruled an accident – unless you suspect anybody to have had an interest in killing your husband.”

John saw his eyes narrow as he took in the distraught wife. He wondered whether she might have had an interest. Life insurance, perhaps. According to her, they had been married for over forty years, and had brought up two children together who now lived up in Birmingham and Coventry with their own families.

John cast a glance round the kitchen and the many photographs of children and what must be grandchildren. There were also rows of glasses containing some kind of jam, and several buckets of apples Mrs. Herdman had apparently been in the process of peeling and cutting up when the accident had happened. A sweet, fruity and yet aromatic scent lingered in the kitchen. John recognised that of apples, but there was something else, too, fresh and fragrant and slightly resinous.

“Quince,” said Sherlock from the direction of the counter, where he had lifted one of the jam glasses.

Mrs. Herdman nodded. “I was making preserves. We have so many quince this year. Walter was complaining. Oh dear,” she started sobbing again, obviously still in shock. Lestrade looked up at Sherlock who was weighing the glass in his hand with a thoughtful expression. Abruptly, he set it down and nodded at John, indicating to him to follow him out into the corridor.

“What’s the matter?” asked John in a low voice when they were out of earshot from the kitchen. “What did you find out? It wasn’t an accident, was it?”

“If my deductions are correct, and I believe they are, Mr. Herdman did indeed fall off the ladder and ‘cricked’ his neck. I haven’t seen the body yet, but when I do I expect to find evidence of a fall because he overbalanced on the ladder.”

John cast a glance back towards the kitchen door from where a sliver of light issued onto the carpet of the corridor. He looked back at Sherlock. “But? There is something else, isn’t there. The fall didn’t kill him, is that what you’ve found out? But what or who else did?”

“His wife.”

“What? But she’s completely shattered. I don’t think she could act that convincingly if she didn’t really mourn him.”

Sherlock looked contemplative. “Oh, I am sure she does mourn him, or at least she mourns the man she married those forty years ago. She clearly is in shock.”

“But why did she do it? Money? Insurance claim?”

Sherlock shook his head, his mouth a tight line of a sudden. “Again you see but you don’t observe, John. Admittedly, they are faded, but the marks are clear.”

“Marks? Oh shit, you mean he beat her?”

“Yes. Regularly, and likely over the course of several years, if not decades. Look at this household, John. It looks homely on the outside, but in all the photographs you see him domineering everybody else. I doubt it is a coincidence that both children moved away from London, despite there being far better employment opportunities for both of them here. Mr. Herdman seems to have been a little tyrant in his own abode, increasingly so after he could not longer boss around employees after his retirement. I don’t think his wife actively planned his demise. But when the opportunity arose, and she found him lying under the apple tree, likely stunned or even unconscious, or unable to move because of a spinal injury, she took it and ... helped him along.”

“But how?”

“Again, I’d need to examine the body, or at least have a look at the coroner’s report. If she was circumspect, she would have simply broken his neck properly. Hence, she could have blamed his death on the accidental fall, and with some luck get away with it.”

“How could she have broken his neck, Sherlock? Have you looked at her? She’s small and frail. Mrs. Hudson looks like Hulk compared to her. It takes considerable strength to break a person’s neck, and the right technique, too, even when it’s already damaged.”

“Quince,” said Sherlock.

“What?”

“She has been preserving quince.”

“What has that to do with the murder?”

Sherlock smiled slyly. “There’s a basket of them on the table. Fetch one, please.”

Frowning, John went. Mrs. Herdman had stopped crying. To him, she still didn’t look like a murderer, but now that he knew what to look for, he noticed the faded bruise on one cheekbone, and others on her half-exposed arms. Her nose, now that he really paid attention to details as Sherlock had done, didn’t seem to be entirely straight, either, as if it had been broken and not set again properly, likely because she had been afraid to consult a doctor for fear of having to answer inquisitive questions of how the injury had been obtained. John felt anger well up in him. What kind of arsehole punched a woman in the face, and even worse, hard enough to break her nose? If that was true, the wanker deserved to be dead. He wondered if that was why Sherlock had asked him to come into the corridor to talk things through instead of showing off his deduction to Lestrade. Was he trying to protect the woman from prosecution?

John found the quince and asked whether he could borrow one. Lestrade gave him a questioning glance. John signed that they would talk later. Mrs. Herdman nodded absently. “You can’t eat them, mind,” she told him. “They need to be cooked first.”

John nodded and rejoined Sherlock outside the kitchen. The fruit in his hand felt funny because it was covered in fine hairs like fur. It looked like a yellow pear, and emitted the fresh, slightly resinous scent he had marvelled about earlier. Sherlock handed him an open pocket knife.

“Cut it open,” he said.

John took the knife and set to work. But when he tried to stick the blade into the fruit, he noticed how hard it was inside. He had to muster a lot of strength to even get it in half way. Without a proper surface to place the quince on, it would be difficult to cut it open.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered. “Are they made of stone?”

“No,” said Sherlock, “but they are pretty tough. My grandmother had a tree in her garden, and I was allowed to help her cut them up when I was seven or eight. Hard work, especially if you have plenty.”

John wiped the knife on his handkerchief and handed it back to Sherlock. “Mrs. Herdman has been cutting up quince all day, by the looks of it.”

“Meaning she is a lot stronger and tougher than she looks, John. Her arms are well-muscled despite their thinness. Don’t confuse it with frailty.”

John nodded, licking his lips. “What are we going to do now? Are you going to tell Lestrade?”

“I would prefer if she told him herself. I doubt her actions didn’t leave traces. The coroner will find evidence of her ... interference. But her motive should be known as well. I doubt she will be charged for murder.”

John nodded. “Let’s go, then. Want me to do the talking?”

Sherlock looked doubtful for a moment. “No. I will. But rein me in should I overstep some social boundaries.”

“Okay. Oh, and Sherlock,” John held him back gently when he set out to return to the kitchen.

“Hm?”

“That was good. What you just did. The way you considered the consequences of your actions, should you expose her.”

He squeezed his arm briefly when Sherlock gave him a shy but grateful smile.

Mrs. Herdman didn’t require a lot of facts laid out in front of her to confess that she had indeed broken her husband’s neck. She did so with a defiant expression and flat voice. She was in tears again, however, when, with a gentleness that would have surprised John before Sherlock’s Fall but didn’t so much anymore now that he had witnessed Sherlock’s caring side more frequently, Sherlock asked her about the bruises. They were presented with a harrowing account of years of abuse that left both John and Lestrade fuming with silent anger. Sherlock didn’t show it as much, but John knew he was affected as well.

The return journey back into London was quiet. Lestrade dropped them off at Baker Street and thanked them. “I’ll keep you in the loop, okay? Thanks, you two. Oh, and Sherlock, be nice to Dimmock, yeah? The poor chap is this close to a mental breakdown.”

Sherlock nodded absently and disappeared into the house. He didn’t talk as he stalked into the living room and discarded his coat and scarf. John expected him to return to his case wall, but Sherlock fetched his violin instead, rosined the bow and tuned the instrument. Then he began to play something slow and sad. John puttered about the kitchen, finally did the washing up and made them some tea, which Sherlock didn’t touch.

He did, however, join John in bed that night. Again, John had already been asleep, but was woken at around two by the mattress dipping and a long arm winding over his torso. He reached up and gently stroked the hand that had come to rest over his belly, and promptly fell asleep again.

 

**- <o>-**

 

When John’s alarm woke him at eight the next morning Sherlock was already awake and hacking away at his laptop – or John’s laptop, rather. Still, he had stayed in bed, likely because the flat was cold. He accepted a good morning kiss from John but seemed distracted.

“I should be finished at two. How about going out for lunch then?” suggested John.

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise.

“Was that a yes?”

“It was,” muttered Sherlock, his eyes still glued to the screen. “Angelo’s. I’ll fetch you at the surgery at two.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

John suspected that Sherlock’s offer to meet him at the clinic was a not so secret attempt at catching a glimpse of Mary. Therefore, John wasn’t surprised when at 1:30 a rather familiar figure in a Belstaff and blue scarf materialised in the waiting room and pretended to read the latest edition of  _ The Mirror _ . Dorothy gave John a broad, knowing grin when she ushered in his last patient of the day, a young trans woman who was having trouble with her hormone jabs. 

After she had left again, John found Sherlock chatting with Dorothy, Jagati and Mary, being unusually polite, his charm ramped up to full, blazing volume. John smirked when he approached the group.

“I hope he’s behaved himself while he was here,” John said when he pulled on his jacket.

“Oh yes,” said Dorothy sweetly. “He even got rid of Mr. Blunt by telling him that he was a hypochondriac and there was nothing wrong with him straight to his face.”

“Well done, Sherlock. Ready? Let's go, then. Have a good day, ladies.”

In the taxi on their way to Soho, John grinned at Sherlock. “Well? Now that you’ve met Mary, do you still consider her a threat?”

Sherlock frowned. “I never considered her a threat. You may have lunch with her again, as long as you don’t overdo it. She is surprisingly interesting.”

“Oh, right, thanks for giving me permission,” said John sarcastically. “So, interesting, yeah? That’s almost praise, from you. What makes her so interesting, then?”

“The fact I couldn’t quite figure her out. Her accent, for example.”

“What accent?”

“Precisely. There is only the faintest indication that her native accent is not the one she employs now. Could be hints of American, but I’m not sure. She is rather fit for someone with a mostly sedentary job, too.”

“Guess she works out. She mentioned that she likes running on Hampstead Heath.”

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully, and John smiled to himself. “Well, I’m glad that you approve of my lunchtime companions. Have you got anything new in the Kerke case? Or on Moran? Mycroft’s got nothing new on him?”

Sherlock shook his head, his frustration at the lack of progress which he seemed to consider a personal failure etched into his features. “No. Ever since we left town for Suffolk, he hasn’t been seen anywhere in or around London. I don’t doubt he has the necessary skills and connections to stay hidden if he so desires, still, when not even Mycroft’s minions can’t keep track of him, then he’s either extremely good, or simply not around.”

“Well, perhaps a commission has taken him out of the country.”

“Perhaps,” mused Sherlock.

 

**- <o>-**

 

Angelo was pleased to see them and insisted on candle, wine and food on the house, and a panna cotta for them to share. After the meal, of which Sherlock partook with surprising appetite, despite a fine drizzle they decided to walk back to Baker Street, winding their way through Soho in amicable silence, their hands brushing ever so often. John felt relaxed and happy. Sherlock, too, appeared to have cast off some of his tense frustration about the Kerke case and seemed content to simply wander through his beloved London.

Dusk was already colouring the western horizon when they reached Baker Street. To John’s surprise, lights could be seen in their living room windows. He saw Sherlock give their door knocker a keen glance. “Seems we have got a visitor,” he mused, gazing up at the windows with a slight frown. “Not Mycroft. He always sets the knocker straight.”

Mrs. Hudson was coming down the stairs when the men entered. “Oh, Sherlock, John, there is a gentleman upstairs. He arrived a short while ago. I tried to call you on your mobile but you didn’t hear, apparently. Since John said you’d be out for lunch, I reckoned you would be back soon. I’ll be up with tea in a moment. Seems to be a client. He was a bit secretive, and I didn’t want to pry.”

Sherlock exchanged a glance with John. John could see that he was intrigued. After Mrs. Hudson had bustled off, he stepped closer to Sherlock. “Any idea who this could be?”

Sherlock shook his head, gazing up the stairs thoughtfully. “No.”

John licked his lips. “Be careful, okay.”

“You think it’s Moran? We told Mrs. Hudson to look out for him and showed her the pictures. He could be wearing disguise, of course, but this house is closely surveyed by Mycroft and his underlings. Any real threat, and he would have warned us. Come on, I’d definitely appreciate another case – a good one.”

With that, he began to ascend the stairs. John followed behind more slowly, wondering whether it’d be prudent to make a detour to his bedroom to fetch his gun, just to be on the safe side. He’d made up his mind to do so indeed when he almost ran into Sherlock, who had stopped dead on the first floor landing. He was sniffing the air. John couldn’t smell anything but a faint whiff of male aftershave. He stepped next to Sherlock to be able to look at his face, and was struck by his friend’s expression. It was incredibly concentrated, as if he was trying to define the smell. Likely, he was checking all the rooms of his mind palace for a reference. A frown began to deepen when possibility after possibility was discarded.

At length, Sherlock stirred. John wasn’t sure whether he had indeed found a match or simply decided to see who their visitor was. He drew back his shoulders and marched on into the living room. A man in a dark-grey suit was standing at the fireplace inspecting the skull. His back was turned towards them, but the reflection of his face was visible in the mirror. The very moment Sherlock saw it, John witnessed how all colour drained from his face. He let out a faint gasp of utter surprise, even shock. John stared at him wide-eyed. The visitor turned to face them. Next to John, Sherlock swallowed audibly.

“You,” he rasped, his voice hoarse and full of emotion.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The artwork for this chapter bears the title ["The fireplace"](http://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/133754270068/the-fireplace-illustration-for-chapter-20-of-my):  
> 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for the feedback. Well, one more chapter to go after this. I hope to finish this story before the new Sherlock episode airs on New Year's Day. For those wondering about all the loose ends that need tying up in this fic, well, there are plans for a sequel ...

The man straightened his shoulders and raised his chin in an almost challenging way. He was of about Sherlock’s height, with grey hair and a stern, angular face with a slightly aquiline nose and a high forehead where the hair had receded already. His face was tanned as if he had spent time abroad, skiing, perhaps, because John thought he could detect faint tanlines on his high cheekbones. He appeared to be rather fit and sporty for his age, which John estimated at late sixties or early seventies. The suit he was wearing looked expensive, the cut traditional, perhaps bespoke, like something Mycroft would wear. The man certainly exuded an air of wealth and privilege, of someone who’d never had to work with his hands. So who was he, and why was his appearance affecting Sherlock so?

 _You see but you don’t observe, John._ Sherlock’s words echoed through John’s mind as he let his gaze switch from Sherlock to the visitor and back. _Oh shit,_ he then thought. _I’m an idiot. It’s obvious. No wonder he’s in shock. Actually, I think I would have preferred Moran to show up here, and not …_ him.

The man let his eyes wander over Sherlock and John, his expression stern, almost haughty. “Yes,” he said at length, his voice deep and of a similar timbre than Sherlock’s. “ _Me._ You seem surprised.”

Sherlock gave a hollow laugh. He had obviously overcome his initial shock. A quick glance at him revealed to John that he had raised and reinforced all his defences. His face was shuttered, his expression unreadable. He stood tall, his narrow shoulders as broad as he could make them with the aid of his trusty Belstaff, his chin raised in a fashion that closely resembled his father’s initial stance. Only the slightest of bobs of his Adam’s apple when he swallowed betrayed the level of his agitation, even distress. Sherlock hid it well, but John was certain he was feeling completely out of his depth, overwhelmed by the unexpected (and unwelcome) encounter.

“Obviously,” sneered Sherlock, in the most condescending tone he could muster. “I didn’t expect you to have the gall – or courage – to show up here. But then you’ve always had the knack for walking in and out of people’s lives whenever it pleased you with no regard for the consequences. What do you want?”

Mr. Holmes didn’t seem intimidated by his son’s outburst, appeared to have expected it, in fact. Watching the two of them closely, John was stricken how much they resembled each other in looks and mannerisms. He could also detect Mycroft in Mr. Holmes aristocratic manner and expression. John would have liked to see a picture of their mother or even meet her, to determine how much of her was visible in her sons.

Mr. Holmes let out a faint sigh and buried his hands in the pockets of his suit-trousers. “The same thing I wanted back in Switzerland, when you decided to refuse my offer to talk and make amends and ran back to London instead. Very mature of you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed dangerously at that. He looked positively angry. “You accuse me of a lack of maturity? You? Just because you thought it advisable to swan in out of the blue – literally, given that you spent the past ten years at the Cote d’Azûr – because suddenly you thought it fit to ‘make amends’ and reconcile with those you left behind all those years ago? Nobody informed me what the meeting was going to be about when I was given the plane ticket to Zürich. Nobody mentioned anything about you being there and suddenly, after almost thirty years of giving an absolute shit about us, wanting to _talk._ ”

He spat out the last word, the ‘k’ a sharp snap.

Again, Mr. Holmes was unimpressed by his outburst. John had no doubts why the situation between them had developed the way it had, with two battlefronts as hardened as they were. Either party considered himself wronged and obviously refused to take the other side into account, likely because they didn’t really know what their respective thoughts and feelings on the subject were. And both were stubborn idiots, by the looks of it. Apparently that feature was hereditary.

“Well, it’s not that _you_ were going to make the first step, was it?” returned Mr. Holmes, getting angry in turn. _Well,_ thought John sarcastically, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes, _this is going splendidly. Perhaps I should get the first aid kit ready for when they start duelling._

Sherlock snorted dangerously and took a step forward.

“Me make the first step?” he asked viciously. “Why me? _I_ wasn’t the one who had an extramarital affair. _I_ wasn’t the one who left his family, and moreover told his son that it had been the child’s fault that his marriage broke apart. I didn’t let my love-life influence my familial or parental duties nor my political career.”

“No, Sherlock, _you_ were the one who simply couldn’t keep his mouth shut and had to broadcast everything he picked up without switching on his brain first to consider whether it would be wise to reveal what you had learned. Your brother knew, too. Mycroft knew all about my doings, and yet he didn’t say a word. And your mother knew as well. She was even d’accord with it, and, believe me, quite content with the arrangement. But you, you had to try and be clever. You had to show off, as always, with your faible for dramatics and bad timing. And apparently you haven’t lost any of that. Trying to make a career out of your weird little knack of reading people.”

He looked round the cluttered living room with its odd and unusual paraphernalia scattered on walls and shelves and the desk, his expression disapproving. “Not that it seems to be going too well by the looks of this place,” he commented condescendingly, his eyes lingering on the battered sofa and the chaotic case wall collage above it. “But at least you seem to have managed to become an internet and tabloid celebrity nowadays, as much for your personal life – aborted PhD, drug abuse, rehabilitation, fake suicide and now a homosexual affair – as your questionable professional one.”

His gaze strayed to John, who returned it from narrowed eyes, his desire to punch the other right into his haughty visage increasing exponentially with every word he said. At his side, Sherlock shook his head slightly, obviously sensing how John was fuming with anger next to him.

Apparently unaware of the danger he was in, Mr. Holmes went on, “What a waste, really, with a brain like yours. Refusing to embark on a shining, respectable scientific or political career like your mother or brother for … this. Consulting detective. You likely made it up, this profession, didn’t you, because everything else wasn’t good enough for the great Sherlock Holmes. You even picked the strangest and most eccentric of your names for your new persona. You always needed to be special, set apart from everybody else. Never even tried to fit in, even as a child. You’ve always been a freak, and it looks that this hasn’t changed to this day. You even celebrate it nowadays.”

John saw Sherlock tense almost imperceptibly at his side. This had been a low blow, even in this vile speech that had been meant to bite. John knew that even though Sherlock usually tried to shake it off and pretend it didn’t touch him, the ‘F’-word, as John had termed it for himself, was one of the most hurtful slanders that Sherlock had had to endure throughout his life, and the one that, to this day, had the most impact. To hear it from his own father … it stirred John’s anger even more. He balled his fists and stepped a little closer to Sherlock to show his staunch support.

Sherlock, however, was preparing his own counter-attack. He tilted his head, his eyes bent on his father. John knew what was coming next. He didn’t bother to hide a faint but dangerous smirk. As much as he looked forward to the in his opinion well deserved, scathing onslaught of Sherlock’s deduction, he was also curious as to what it would reveal about the virtual stranger standing in front of the fireplace.

When Sherlock spoke, it was surprisingly calm, his enunciation very measured and precise. His words, however, were as sharp and cutting as a scalpel. “Well, my ‘freakishness’, as you so aptly name it, surely hasn’t sprung out of thin air. It must come from somewhere. Likely, it is hereditary. So unless I am adopted, you can blame your own genes. Still, you managed to have your little speech. Bravo. Doubtlessly you enjoyed criticising me, although I fail to see how this approach is going to reconcile us in any way. But then, you’ve never had a knack for interpersonal relationships.”

Mr. Holmes huffed out a bitter laugh. “Says the self-styled sociopath.”

Sherlock didn’t rise to the jibe. “Apple, tree,” he returned with a shrug. “But you haven’t replied to my initial question. Why, after all these years, are you suddenly so eager to ‘reconcile’? Let me tell you why.”

He took a step closer to his father and inclined his head, gazing at the other intently. “You’ve recently divorced your second wife after she had an affair with the captain of your yacht, a man half your age. How very fitting, don’t you think? She managed to branch off some of your wealth into her own accounts, but you are still comfortably well off. You are bored, however. Your attempts at looking younger without stooping as low as undergoing plastic surgery have not been successful enough in interesting other women of status and wits who aren’t just after your money, and there is only so much hanging out in casinos and sailing the Mediterranean one can do. But that is not all, is it? Over the years, you’ve increasingly been in contact with both mother and Mycroft, mostly with the latter. First, you consulted him on political matters when you were still active as British ambassador on Malta, but more and more about family issues, too. You are well informed about my past, which indicates interest in your second born’s affairs, despite your insistent claim that I am such a disappointment to you. So is this sentiment brought on by the advance of old age? Hardly. Your grooming and attire, as well as your hard-earned level of physical fitness indicate that you consider yourself anything but old, despite being closer to eighty than to seventy. The betrayal of your partner was a low blow, but not enough to shatter your extraordinary self-confidence.

“So what else is there? What event may have brought on your sudden change of mind to not just keep up communications with Mycroft and Dr. Holmes, but also with your failure of a younger son? Well, there is the fact that said son only recently returned from the dead. You learned about my suicide, not from Mycroft, but from the papers, during a time when you were at a personal low due to your then-wife’s affair which you’d just confronted her about. I know you for a selfish man who deals out blame easily, even going as far as blaming his nine year old son for the breakup of his own marriage, but you are not an entirely heartless bastard. You realised, perhaps while experiencing what betrayal felt like from the other side, how you had messed up twenty-eight years ago. It must have gnawed at you, all those years of eschewing all contact with me. You knew you had made a mistake. And my suicide had robbed you of any chance of making amends, ever. It speaks for you that this troubled you. Even now, the remainder of that shock affects you.”

Studying Mr. Holmes, John saw how he had blanched slightly. At Sherlock’s last words he had cast down his eyes briefly. John’s anger subsided a little, even though he still remained tense and alert at Sherlock’s side.

“I don’t know if Mycroft told you that I was still alive – I rather believe he didn’t. Even John here didn’t know,” Sherlock went on with a quick glance at John, his look apologetic. John let out a breath. The remainder of Sherlock’s betrayal of his trust still hurt. He doubted it would ever cease to do so, despite him having forgiven Sherlock for what he had done.

“But when you learned of my return, you felt you had been given a second chance. By that time your divorce had been finalised, you were free, and perhaps feeling humbled and a little nostalgic. Sentimental, even. You increased your endeavours to communicate with Mycroft, you met with mother again to find that she didn’t resent you as much as you’d feared. The most difficult matter, the reconciliation with your wayward second-born, you left for last. Still, you felt that the clock was ticking. You were running out of time, you believed.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he watched his father jerk up his chin defiantly. “Because you are, aren’t you?”

Sherlock raised his head, his expression grave. He swallowed slightly while Mr. Holmes held his gaze steadily. “What is it? Cancer?”

Mr. Holmes’ face worked for a moment. “So this is this ‘thing’ you’re doing for your clients,” he said, disregarding Sherlock’s question. “Reading their life-stories in their clothes and hair-cuts and the dirt under their fingernails, exposing all their secrets without a thought and care about their privacy.”

He nodded to himself. “Of course, you could have learned much about what you just told me about myself from Mycroft or your mother, but I don’t think you did. It’s quite intrusive, but not entirely without fascination. You got the last bit wrong, however.”

“There’s always something,” muttered Sherlock. To his father, he added, “What do you have, then, that made you suddenly aware of your own mortality?” It didn’t come out as biting as no doubt he had intended.

Mr. Holmes squared his shoulders. “I wouldn’t be so nonchalant about it if I were you, son. It may affect you more than you think. Genes, remember.”

“Son?” sneered Sherlock. “Funny that you still consider me your offspring, after making very clear, twenty-eight years ago, that you see me as an utter failure and disappointment. Back then you told me, to my face, that you’d have preferred me to never have been born. And I was only nine years old at the time.”

 

“Well, I still hold to that. It would have made many things a lot easier,” returned Mr. Holmes coldly. To John it seemed that he had spoken defensively, before actually considering his words. But there was no way of taking them back.

Sherlock had paled at the last statement. However much he had tried to uphold a remote, professional façade during the encounter, this last blow revealed the cracks. He let out a long breath and swallowed hard. “If that is your opinion, even after all this time, then I have nothing else to say to you. John, please see him out.”

With that, he turned and strode off. John expected him to bolt down the stairs and out of the front door, but surprisingly, Sherlock steered towards his room, where he spent a short while, apparently to fetch something. Then he left via the other door and stomp down the stairs.

During all this time, John was standing tensely staring down Mr. Holmes, who was doing his best to meet his furious gaze defiantly and failing. Listening to the sound of the front door, which, surprisingly, didn’t come, John advanced a step, noticing to his grim delight how the other eyed him suspiciously and not without worry. Apparently Mr. Holmes wasn’t sure whether he might not still receive a clap round the ears or a bloody nose for his insolence. John decided to let him stew for a moment longer.

“That went well,” he commented sarcastically. “Did you really come here to insult and distress him?”

Mr. Holmes’ shoulders dropped and he let out a long breath, apparently acknowledging his defeat. “No, that was not my intention. I had hoped for things to go differently. I should have considered my decision to come here unannounced more carefully, I can see that now.”

“Yes, a bit of advance warning wouldn’t have gone amiss,” agreed John. Recalling what Sherlock’s father had said previously, he gave him a worried glance. “You said something about an illness? If it’s not cancer, what else would affect both you and potentially him?” Running a list of hereditary diseases through his mind, he studied the other for symptoms but couldn’t detect any obvious ones.

Mr. Holmes sighed again, looking suddenly years older. “Tests are still being run to determine how dangerous and potentially life threatening it is, and to gauge the risks and benefits of surgery, but a recent MRI scan revealed an aneurysm in my brain that could burst any time. You are a doctor, right? You know what that means.”

John nodded. “Yes,” he said quietly. “And I hope that the diagnosis is going to be in your favour. I am no neurosurgeon, but surgery techniques are very advanced nowadays. Depending on the position, there is a good chance of preventing the aneurysm from bursting without actually opening the skull to clip it. Endovascular coiling could be used, for example. But aneurysms are not hereditary. You having one does not increase his chances of doing so, too.”

He knew, however, that both preventive measures came with risks, and he was certain, looking at Mr. Holmes’ proud but tired face, that the other was well informed about them. The man’s ego seemed to have entirely deflated after his confession. His brash confidence was gone. John wondered whether he should offer him a chair and a drink. Downstairs, the front door was shut with a violent clang. Apparently Sherlock had finally left. John wondered what he had delayed his departure, and if perhaps he had stood on the stairs the entire time and listened to their conversation.

“That is true. Still, I thought that perhaps he might consider a scan, too, to make sure he hasn’t got one. Thank you, Dr. Watson,” said Mr. Holmes, sounding genuinely grateful. “I am sorry we met under these circumstances, without having even been properly introduced. And my earlier remark about your and Sherlock’s sexual orientation ... I apologise for that, too. I should be pleased that he has managed to find someone to look after him, and who appreciates him for what he is.”

“And what is that?” asked John tersely before he could stop himself.

Mr. Holmes regarded him thoughtfully. “A genius, of course. With all the difficult trappings this implies.”

John nodded. Sherlock’s father was right there. Perhaps this was one of the reasons he never managed to fully connect with his son – or sons, even. Nor with his wife. Having lived with Sherlock for a while now John thought he partly understood what it was like, even for a fairly intelligent person like himself – or Mr. Holmes, who didn’t make the impression of a stupid man –, to be in the company of someone who was one’s intellectual superior by a long stretch. And to be surrounded by three of them … It was no excuse for behaving the way Mr. Holmes had done, but yeah, life in the Holmes household couldn’t have been easy for him.

As much as he wanted to, John decided not to enlighten Sherlock’s father about his own or his son’s sexual orientation, since the explanation would have taken more time John was willing to invest. Moreover Mr. Holmes was a virtual stranger, both to John and to Sherlock himself. With so much unsettled and still in flux between Sherlock and John, their relationship still in its fledgling state, John felt that whatever happened or didn’t happen between the sheets was their own personal matter.

Feeling the need to stick up for Sherlock, however, he faced up to Mr. Holmes and said, “Yes, that is true. But I don’t just ‘appreciate’ him, Mr. Holmes. I love him, and have done so for quite some time.”

He was tempted to add that in a rather strange and unusual way, they’d even become engaged some days ago. “It’s not just some ‘homosexual affair’,” he said instead, defiantly. “Neither for me, nor for him. Even if it were, it’d be our thing and nobody else’s concern, and I wouldn’t be ashamed of it.”

 _Yeah, you’ve been denying that you were a couple long enough,_ a little voice in his head piped up. _Good to see you’ve finally come to your senses and weathered your little sexuality crisis._

 _We weren’t a couple back then,_ John told the voice. _And I never had a crisis over my sexuality, thank you very much. I just didn’t want people implying things that simply weren’t there. And now shut up._

“He’s the most important person in my life, and I’m in his, too,” he added with no small measure of pride. “And I hope to spend the rest of it with him. And yes, I do look after him, and I don’t want to see him hurt. Therefore, I would ask you to leave now. I believe the two of you need to talk again, but preferably at a neutral place and with someone to moderate the proceedings. Also, both of you need to leave your stubborn egos out of that conversation. I’ll talk to Sherlock, but it will be some time until – maybe – he agrees to meet with you again. I take it Mycroft has been in touch with you. We’ll leave it to him to arrange the next meeting. He is good at these things.”

Mr. Holmes gave John a long, appraising glance. At length the nodded. “Yes, that may be for the best. Good day, Dr. Watson, and thank you. If you want, I will keep you informed about the diagnosis.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

For a moment, Mr. Holmes looked tempted to shake his hand but thought the better of it. John gave him a stiff farewell nod when he went to pick up his coat and scarf which he had hung over the back of a desk chair. As troubled as he was about the whole situation and the potential effect it had had on Sherlock, John could not suppress a smile when he saw how the other wound his cashmere scarf round his neck and flipped up the collar of his coat. _Must be genetic, too,_ thought John wryly.

Stiffly, he escorted Mr. Holmes down the stairs and out of the door. He watched his tall figure walk down Baker Street towards Marylebone Road, likely looking for a taxi. Then drawing a deep breath, he returned inside, fishing for his mobile in the inner pocket of his jacket. Unsurprisingly, there was no message from Sherlock. John typed a quick _He’s gone, where are you?_

His eyes fell on the worn carpet in the hall, and the sliver of light falling on it from the direction of the staircase leading down to 221C. Frowning, John went to investigate. The door to the old flat was open, the smell of damp issuing into the narrow corridor. John knew what he was going to find when he stepped inside the low-ceilinged room that had once held Carl Powers’ trainers. Sherlock’s Simplon bike was gone. Instead, his clothes were heaped in the middle of the room on top of his Belstaff. John sighed as he stooped to pick them up. At least the idiot seemed to have had the sense to don some appropriate gear and had taken his cycling helmet. Still, neither of their bicycles had any lights or even reflectors, and Sherlock’s cycling attire was of uniformly dark colouring. Not suitable for cycling after nightfall, especially not in a city notorious for its lethal traffic, particularly to cyclists.

His worry increased tenfold, John checked his mobile. Sherlock had not replied. Searching inside Sherlock’s discarded coat and suit jacket, John felt some faint relief when he didn’t find Sherlock’s mobile. At least he seemed to have taken it with him. Nevertheless, the situation was all but heartening. _Sherlock, please call or text me. I’m worried,_ John messaged him.

Cursing softly, John quickly ascended the stairs. He was sorely tempted to take his own bike and set out to follow Sherlock, but knew that it would be pointless. Even if he had stuck by one of their usual routes, Sherlock had a good head start, and there was no knowing where he had gone, especially when he was dressed in a way he could barely be spotted. Ah, but somebody might be able to track him down.

Already in the process of typing Mycroft’s number, John saw that Mrs. Hudson’s door was ajar when he reached the hall. Presently, she opened it, gazing at him questioningly with a worried expression. “I was about to bring up some tea and biscuits, but then I heard raised voices and thought I’d better not burst in and disturb you. Is everything all right, John? Who was that? A client?”

John let out a long breath and shook his head. “No, Mrs. Hudson, that was Sherlock’s father?”

Her eyes went wide. “His father? I thought his father was dead, from the way he talked about him. If he mentioned him at all.”

“He might as well have been, Mrs. Hudson. According to my knowledge, this is the first time they’ve spoken face to face in almost thirty years. And it didn’t go well, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. It’s a long story. I’ll gladly tell you some other time, or Sherlock will. But for now, I have to make sure he’s all right. The idiot went out on his bicycle, and he hasn’t even got lights on it. I have to phone Mycroft to see if he can find him before he gets himself run over by a bus or lorry.”

Mrs. Hudson bit her lip and reached out to rub his shoulder. “I’m so relieved he’s got you now, John,” she told him earnestly. “You go and make that phone call, and I’ll bring you a cuppa in a moment.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

Mycroft picked up on the second ring. He didn’t seem surprised by John’s call, nor his barely suppressed anger.

“I am fully aware that the situation was all but ideal and should have been prevented, John,” he forestalled John’s angry tirade, “but unfortunately I’m out of the country at the moment, and only learned of our father’s visit to Baker Street a short while ago – due to Sherlock’s insistence, I should add, that your home must not be surveilled as closely as I would have preferred. Be that as it may, I take it things did not go well, otherwise you wouldn’t be calling.”

“‘Not well’ is the understatement of the year,” snorted John sarcastically. “The entire exchange was basically your father criticising and insulting Sherlock (and me, but that’s not important right now), and Sherlock giving back as best he could, and both of them being stupid, stubborn idiots on the whole. You father reiterated his conviction that the family would be better off had Sherlock not been born, and dropped a bomb about his aneurysm. Sherlock deduced him and laid bare all his failures in life. It was as nice and cozy as you’d imagine.”

A sigh sounded at the other end of the line, together with a rustle of cloth. John imagined Mycroft to either run a hand over his eyes or pinch the bridge of his nose. “My apologies, John,” he said at length, sounding resigned and weary. “As I said, it shouldn’t have happened that way. I actually advised father not to visit Baker Street during his time in London, particularly not on his own and unannounced. But as you said, he is very stubborn. How is Sherlock?”

Now it was John’s turn to sigh. “I don’t know. He stormed out of the flat at one point. I was left with your old man. Only later I found out that Sherlock has taken his Simplon and is out and about in London somewhere. That’s the reason I’m calling you. He hasn’t got any lights on his bike, and his clothes are dark. I believe he has his mobile on him, but he may have switched it off. At least he hasn’t replied to my texts. I know you have means of tracking him. He may cycle as much as he likes, I just want him to be safe and not do anything reckless or stupid that causes him to end up under a lorry somewhere.”

“I’ll see what I can do, John,” promised Mycroft. There was a brief pause, then he added. “Thank you.”

John nodded before recalling that Mycroft wouldn’t be able to see. “No problem. Just bring him back in one piece, okay.”

“I’ll do my very best.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

No word arrived from Sherlock for the next two hours. Mycroft sent a short text assuring John that he had been spotted in Hampstead and was being followed cautiously by one of Mycroft’s people. John, meanwhile, paced the flat agitatedly, too worried to sit down and start anything that involved concentration. To his relief, Mrs. Hudson joined him, bringing tea and biscuits. As promised, he gave her a brief account of what had befallen with Sherlock’s father. He also recounted what he knew about Sherlock’s familial history.

After he had ended, Mrs. Hudson sat sipping her tea, shaking her head. “I don’t know of any family that hasn’t had its bit of trouble and heartbreak,” she stated at length. “My parents were all but happy when I married Frank. They didn’t want to attend our wedding at first, and when they did, they sat the entire day with disapproving faces. In the end, they were right in their dislike of him, of course. But it hurt, on the day.”

John sighed. “I haven’t really talked to my mum for a long time, either,” he admitted. “And even though things with Harry have improved, we’re still not best friends. So I guess you’re right. But Sherlock’s parents … to me they seem to have always been too concerned with their own affairs. Apparently Mycroft somehow managed to deal with it, but Sherlock …”

“It’s because Sherlock is far more emotional, even sentimental than he lets on,” said Mrs. Hudson wisely. “He is so very sensitive, that boy. I wish I could say he was sensible also. Maybe that’ll come with age. But back when I first met him in Florida, he struck me as someone who hadn’t found his place in the world yet. He was so thin and pale. Delicate, that’s the right word. But very smart and quick and tougher than he looked. More ruthless, too. I often thought of that strange young man after my husband had been convicted and I moved back to England. And then one day he showed up at my door. It’s good that he has you now to remind him to eat and sleep. And for you he’s been good, too, hasn’t he? Look at you dashing about now, looking all fit and healthy. That’s a far cry – if I may say so – from the pale and broken man that limped up the stairs when you first came to look at the flat.”

John nodded. “Sherlock is the best thing that’s happened to me all my life. I’m not sure I’d still be here without him.”

She gave him a long, grave look, then emptying her teacup and beginning to stack the tray again, she smiled at him. “I understand, dear,” she said quietly, and rose from Sherlock’s armchair.

She had just left the upstairs flat when John heard the front door. He breathed a sigh of relief when he heard Mrs. Hudson’s voice. “Good God, Sherlock, there you are. We’ve been so worried about you. Where on earth have you been, all wet and muddy? Oh, and don’t even think about wheeling that bike over my carpet. Carry it downstairs, will you, and leave your shoes here. Those cleats make awful marks on the steps.”

John didn’t catch Sherlock’s reply, which seemed to have been a short, low murmur anyway. Deliberating whether to go downstairs and help him with his bicycle, John decided to stay. Very likely his interference wouldn’t be welcome. He ran both hands through his hair as he listened for Sherlock’s footsteps on the stairs.

Eventually, he heard the soft pads of wet socks. He turned to glance over his shoulder when a shadow appeared in the living room door. John felt oddly reminded of the Christmas when Sherlock had believed Irene Adler had been killed and John and Mrs. Hudson had searched his bedroom for drugs. Now, too, Sherlock cast a cursory glance through the room.

He looked done in, drenched and muddy, pale despite his flushed cheeks, drawn and gaunt-faced, his nose red and his wet hair flattened to his skull. John didn’t ask him whether he was all right, because it was plain to see that he wasn’t. But at least he didn’t seem to be physically hurt.

“There was no need to send the cavalry after me, John,” said Sherlock reproachfully while struggling to pull off his gloves.

“I was worried. Too many idiot drivers out there. Please have a shower before you catch cold.”

Sherlock grunted, but withdrew in the direction of the bathroom.

John sighed and sank back into his chair. He texted a quick _He’s back_ to Mycroft, then sat staring into the fire. The bathroom door was shut with a snap, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Then to distract himself, he angled for his laptop. He wasn’t sure if Sherlock was going to be in the mood for company tonight, so he might as well do something useful and write up the Suffolk case.

 

**- <o>-**

 

When Sherlock hadn’t made an appearance about an hour later, John sighed, and draining the last mouthful of tea from his mug, rose from his chair. Apparently Sherlock wasn’t going to come out again this evening. John felt a great urge to check on him, but surmised that any interference of his wouldn’t be appreciated. Briefly, he entertained the hope that Sherlock might have completely worn himself out on the bike and simply fallen asleep. But John doubted that this was indeed the case. At least he seemed to have had the sense to shower, although John feared that his wet and dirty clothes were strewn all over the bathroom floor. But he didn’t feel like going to check, because it would have meant venturing into the bathroom, and hence pass close to Sherlock’s room, which might have been construed as ‘spying on him’ by Sherlock. Sometimes, thought John with another sigh, living with the world’s only consulting detective was like carrying a raw egg in one’s pocket all the time. One careless move, and he’d crack, although admittedly this situation was more serious than previous ones.

Mr. Holmes unexpected visit had clearly upset his son, far more, John was certain, than what Sherlock let on. Too much buried history, there. The entire family clearly needed some professional help to work through their issues – not that either of them would admit it or agree to ever see a therapist. Still, Sherlock’s father had come in what seemed to have been a somewhat clumsy but genuine attempt at a first step to bridge the chasm that had developed between him and his second born. And Sherlock ... _Maybe,_ reasoned John, _I_ should _check on him._

Still, he felt reluctant. He wasn’t good at this kind of thing, giving comfort. It worked well enough when he was dealing with patients, strangers more or less. There he could maintain a professional distance. He had to, even. He could do professional, was even pretty good at it. But interpersonal issues? Sentiment? Intimate confession? He was rubbish at those.

When he had first met Sherlock, he’d thought him to be the cold, rational and emotionally stuck up one. Hell, he’d even called him a machine on that fateful day he had jumped from the roof of St. Barts. But if John had been honest to himself, and indeed observed Sherlock and listened to him more closely, he should have realised that in truth it was the other way round. Sherlock had achieved true mastery in hiding his emotions over the years, likely to prevent getting teased and hurt, but wasn’t that what John had done as well? Hadn’t he been the one holding back, denying the attraction he felt for Sherlock, correcting people who assumed they were a couple? Wasn’t he the one who’d barely been able to admit to Ella, out loud, that Sherlock was dead, who’d found talking about him so very difficult. Sherlock, for all his awkwardness with sentimental and intimate matters had been surprisingly candid and straightforward, despite his lack of experience. And Three Continents Watson … well, that one had always held back. He really wasn’t the right kind of person to try and ease Sherlock’s misery now. Not by trying to make him talk about it, anyway.

He was drying his mug in the kitchen when he more felt than heard movement behind him, accompanied by the faint scent of Sherlock’s – no, John’s own – shampoo. John felt touched that apparently Sherlock had used his shampoo instead of his own, perhaps because he associated the scent with a notion of comfort.

He didn’t look comfortable at all, however. Turning, John beheld Sherlock standing awkwardly in the doorway. He had obviously showered not long ago – his hair was still slightly moist and stuck out at odd angles, as if he had continuously run his hands through it. He had changed into his blue dressing gown and his oldest, rattiest t-shirt and pyjama bottoms. This was the outfit, John knew by now, he wore when he was feeling particularly out of sorts, perhaps because he associated some kind of soothing memory with the clothes, or maybe because he simply liked their feel, soft from years and years of washing, nothing left to aggravate his sensitive skin. Or else because he considered them as another piece of armour against the outside world, like his suits and crisp, tight shirts and his majestic coat.

He was still pale, and in the cold overhead light from the kitchen lamp he looked almost ghostly, his eyes shadowed and his cheeks seeming more hollow than in reality. His nose and ears were slightly red, the only sign of life. John hoped he hadn’t caught a cold out on the bike. The way he held himself with his hands buried in the pockets of the gown and his arms pressed stiffly against his sides as if trying to keep himself warm, and how he stood with his shoulders hunched and bent radiated discomfort, even distress. Still, he _had_ come out of his bedroom.

“Oh, hey,” John greeted him gently, hoping he didn’t sound too awkward. _Raw egg,_ he thought. “You look like you could do with a cuppa. I’ll switch the kettle on, okay?”

Sherlock made a nondescript sound, but twitched in what John read as a shake of head. “No tea?” he asked.

Sherlock shook his head again, more definite this time. “Guess you don’t want to eat anything, either, even though I think you should,” went on John. Sherlock just continued to eye him warily, like a hunted creature huddled in its cave.

John signed, leaning against the counter. “You know I want to help you, Sherlock, but I’m not sure I know how. I won’t ask whether you’re all right. It’s plain to see that you’re not. At least you didn’t spent all night alone in your room. Do you ... er ... want me to leave? Want the kitchen to yourself to experiment some more on the mortar samples from Kerke’s fireplace?”

Sherlock’s mouth narrowed, but then he shook his head again. Drawing a deep breath and straightening his shoulders, “I’d rather you didn’t,” he said, his voice quiet and slightly hoarse. He swallowed, gazing at the floor before raising his eyes to John’s again. “Leave, I mean.”

“Okay,” said John, shifting a little awkwardly, not knowing what else to say. He tried to think of something to interest Sherlock in that might distract him.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he watched him. He appeared to be thinking for a moment, before he stirred. Sticking out his chin and assuming a posture once more resembling his usual straight-backed confidence, he drew a long breath. “Evidence suggests that tonight has all the makings of a danger night,” he stated at last, speaking formally which might have sounded ridiculous on any other occasion, but here only betrayed the depth of his distress. Sherlock swallowed again, once again averting his eyes to study the floor. “I’d rather not spend it alone,” he added softly.

He gave John a furtive glance full of insecurity. “Unless of course you have other plans or are tired. I won’t keep you then. I just thought your company might be preferable to ... other things.”

John let out a long breath. “Of course I’ll stay,” he promised. “Just tell me what you need. Or show it. Or ... whatever. Do you want to stay here? Or in the living room? I could light the fire again. It’d be too cold without it since the heating is already off for the night.”

Sherlock shook his head again, biting his lip. His head twitched in the direction of his bedroom. Now it was John’s turn to swallow. The invitation seemed clear. As such, it was monumental, even if it didn’t carry any immediate sexual connotations. John had been in Sherlock’s room before, several times, but he had never actually slept there. During their cohabitation before the Fall, he had mostly popped in to wake Sherlock, and once deposited his drugged friend on the bed. After Sherlock’s supposed death, the overwhelming memories associated with the room had kept him out, leaving Mrs. Hudson to sort through his things, and after Sherlock’s return, John had only entered infrequently on short errands, never to actually spend time there.

He knew that Sherlock considered the room as a kind of sanctuary, and as a place to withdraw to when things got too much. Sometimes he actually slept there, too, when the demands of his transport could not longer be denied. It was where he kept evidence of his sentimental, even nostalgic side with old case-files stowed away in the wardrobe and childhood memorabilia dotted about the room. So far, for all their friendship and increasing intimacy, John had felt like an intruder when entering the place unbidden. To be invited now, especially during a time when Sherlock was feeling particularly volatile and vulnerable, touched him deeply, because it showed that Sherlock had taken his words to heart. Here he was feeling out of his depth, and yet he reached out to John, willing to let him in.

His throat tight of a sudden, John swallowed again. “Thank you, Sherlock,” he said thickly. “I appreciate this.”

Sherlock inclined his head, waiting for John to walk past him. He switched off the light as John advanced down the corridor, then followed silently.

The room was only lit by Sherlock’s bedside lamp. The covers of his bed were wrinkled but hadn’t been thrown back. He hadn’t been in bed, then, only sitting on it. A couple of sheets of paper lay next to one of the pillows, together with a pencil. Drawing closer, John recognised Sherlock’s spidery, rather messy handwriting on what seemed to be several drafts of a letter, the writing of the topmost two sheets suddenly dissolving into bundles of lines and notes, as if mid-writing, Sherlock had suddenly begun to compose music. John wondered at this. Usually, he composed with his violin in hand to try out tune and harmony. Still, to John, the fact he was composing at all was another clear sign of his friend’s emotional distress. Whenever Sherlock thought he couldn’t cope with something, he turned to expressing his feelings through music.

Looking up from the papers, John found Sherlock watching him, his face unreadable, half cast into shadow. John licked his lips. “What do you need?” he asked simply, knowing that very likely there was no simple answer.

Sherlock shrugged, looking both exasperated, impatient and angry at himself for having to ask for support at all. He also looked like he wished to simply let himself fall and not worry about anything for a while. He huffed out a breath, then raised his chin again as if in challenge.

“Distraction,” he said, adding, “obviously,” in his habitual haughty tone, as if to maintain a last vestige of his steely, impregnable outer shell.

John nodded, not fooled by the act, but at the same time at a loss what ‘distraction’ implied in this case. “Okay,” he ventured. “Er ... any particular kind of distraction?”

Sherlock huffed again and ran both hands through his already messy hair in a gesture of sheer frustration. “If I knew, I’d already employed it myself. The things I did try didn’t work. I can’t even concentrate enough to pick up the violin for fear of smashing it to bits. There are so many thoughts in my head, and so many feelings” – the word came accompanied by a sneer – “I just .... I just don’t know how to make sense of it all. Never did.”

John stepped closer to him, raising his hand a fraction to wait for a cue from Sherlock whether it would be okay to touch him. Sherlock eyed the hand briefly, but made no clear sign, so John dropped it again. “Is that why you took drugs in the past?” he enquired, genuinely interested, because Sherlock’s addiction to hallucinogenic substances had always puzzled him. Sherlock rarely even drank alcohol, and refused to take medication that would ‘addle his mind’, according to him. Why then would he have injected cocaine in the past?

Sherlock looked at him keenly. “Yes,” he admitted.

John frowned. “But why cocaine? Wouldn’t it have made things worse, being a stimulant? Wouldn’t something like marihuana or heroin have brought on the effect of calming your thoughts?”

Sherlock seemed irritated for a moment, not having expected his invitation to lead to a discussion of his former drug habit. His eyes on John hardened briefly, before he shrugged again, letting out a sigh. “I don’t know. I never tried those.”

John’s eyebrows shot up. “Really? Never? Not even grass. I mean, even I tried that at uni once.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, assuming an expression very close to his usual haughty disdain. “John, I told you before that I did not exactly participate in what is considered ‘normal’ student behaviour while at university. I rarely smoked, I didn’t take drugs (the cocaine started afterwards), I rarely drank alcohol – in fact, the only time I was inebriated worth mentioning was when Victor danced with me –, and I definitely didn’t pursue any sexual conquests. In fact, I must seem like the most boring of students, if you rate excitement or ‘fun’ by these terms. So no ‘grass’ or ‘booze’ for me. As for heroin, I stayed clear of that from the beginning. I did consider it and read up on its properties, but since it seemed to have an effect contrary to what I wanted to achieve, not to mention the long list of disadvantages, I stayed clear of it.”

“And which effect was that? The one you wanted to achieve?”

“Control. Order. Clarity. Cocaine provides all these. It makes your brain fast, extremely fast. Extremely brilliant, too. Connections, patterns, they appear so much quicker, much more immediately. You can see them in your mind’s eye, they seem so real, so logical. You believe you can grasp them. All the distracting feelings, the muddling questions and worries, they drop away. It’s like ... looking at a chess board and seeing the entire game unfold without ever making a move. It’s like the thrill you get from solving a riddle or mathematic equation, only times a hundred, a thousand in intensity. It’s like ... standing on top of Col du Galibier after hours of arduous climbing. The same elation ... just far, far more intense. It’s utterly brilliant.”

John looked at his animated face and the large hands waving about in quick gestures to underline his points. He felt both fascinated and worried. He believed Sherlock when he claimed to have been clean for many years, but hearing him speak like this, it was plain to see that the seeds of the addiction (which Sherlock so vehemently disputed) were still there, lying dormant in the dark and waiting to be reawakened by desperation or utter boredom.

Before John could comment and voice his worries, however, Sherlock’s shoulders sagged and he let out a long breath. “Unfortunately, coming down from the high isn’t as pleasant, neither is having to spend money on it, and moreover giving said money to people I prefer to see in prison.”

John gave him a glance from narrowed eyes. “I always wondered how you financed your … I was going to say habit, but you’re going to fight me over this, aren’t you?”

“Because I wasn’t addicted,” returned Sherlock stiffly. “It wasn’t a habit. I only used irregularly, when I didn’t see any other way to calm or occupy my mind. And as for financing it, well, I still had some of my university grant left at the time, so that came in handy. I also had access to some labs, more or less legally, which helped to procure high grade cocaine, not the stuff you can buy on the streets which has been cut with all kinds of rubbish. I also knew how to put pressure on those select dealers I acquired things from. Some of them I still keep in contact with, although not for cocaine but information. They don’t really care where the money comes from, but they do like to stay out of prison.”

John nodded, studying him thoughtfully while trying to gauge whether Sherlock was telling the truth about the severity of his drug use. “Did you ever get into a dangerous situation because of the drugs?”

Sherlock shrugged evasively, but then, apparently feeling John’s worried gaze on him, inclined his head in a nod. “Well, they’re not the safest bunch of people, dealers and their providers. One tried to push cocaine on me that was far higher in concentration then what I wanted. Had I taken it, would likely have overdosed. He insisted on me trying it out on the spot, which I refused, and we quarrelled. There was a knife involved, I remember, but I managed to escape before I was hurt. I never took anything in public, and never in a way where I couldn’t control the dose. There was another dealer who suggested that I could pay him in other currency than money. I knew that a fair number of his customers were desperate enough to prostitute themselves to finance their habit.”

“You weren’t,” stated John grimly.

“Of course not. The only time I was desperate enough to even consider exchanging sexual favours in exchange for anything – in this case information – was during my time abroad. And I told you how well that went.”

A brief shadow passed over his face. “As for those particular two dealers, I dropped a hint to London City Police and the Met to take the men off the streets. Both had been on their radar for some time, and I provided the evidence to put them in jail where according to my knowledge they still reside.”

“What made you stop using? Lestrade once indicated that he first encountered you when you were still on the sauce.”

“Yes, that’s true. I accidentally happened onto a crime scene and ended up helping him with the case, and thus our association started. He seemed slightly less dumb and more inclined to listen to me than his colleagues. It was his luck that he saw my potential.”

“And your luck, too, apparently,” said John with a slight smile.

Sherlock let out a long breath. “Yes, and mine,” he admitted. “Working for the Met, even on easy cases, helped stave off boredom. It was worth going to rehab for to provide proof of being clean. It also kept my patronising elder brother at bay who of course found out that I’d been using, and where I acquired the drugs. That, most of all, had certainly not been worth any high. I hope this satisfies your curiosity concerning my vile drug habit.”

He glanced at John almost imploringly. “I know what it sounded like, me waxing rhapsodic about cocaine. I don’t crave it any longer, if that’s what you’re worried about. I promised I wouldn’t touch it again, and I intend to keep this promise. I just wish ...,” he sighed, suddenly looking troubled again.

“What do you wish?” asked John.

“I wish I had found something to really replace it, particularly in moments like this, when everything threatens to overwhelm me, when I can’t see the pattern. When I don’t understand how things work, and how to resolve them.”

John raised his eyebrows again and pointed at his chest with both thumbs. “Isn’t that what you’ve now got your doctor and blogger for? Isn’t that why you invited me in here?”

Sherlock stared at him, and then actually started to smile, his expression turning warm and gentle for a moment. “Yes, that was the plan. What does my doctor and blogger suggest to distract me, then?”

“Well, since neither of us wants to go out to chase some criminals or hang out in a pub to get properly pissed right now, there are several options in this room. Not sure if you’re interested in anything physical. I mean, sex can be very distracting …”

Sherlock blushed at this and swallowed hard, but John could tell by the awkward, stiff pose he assumed at the mention of sex that this wasn’t on Sherlock’s agenda, which John considered for the best anyway. Their proper first time shouldn’t be with one party this upset.

“There could be cuddling, or massages. I assume you don’t want to talk about what happened earlier today – although I think you should at some point, but perhaps not to me but someone more ... professional. We could watch something you love to take apart. Or ... oh, wait, I have an idea. This could potentially be either brilliant or a complete disaster. Wait here for a moment. I need to fetch something from my room. Make yourself comfortable on the bed – or in it, whatever you prefer. I’ll be back in a mo’. Oh, and you can occupy yourself by trying to deduce what I’m going to fetch.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

Up in his room, slightly out of breath from running up the stairs, John switched on the light and spun round in a slow circle. The idea that had flashed through his brain down in Sherlock’s room suddenly didn’t seem so bright anymore. Nevertheless, he approached his wardrobe, opened it and rummaged around in it for a bit until he found a box near the bottom, weighed down by several clothes bags containing his army fatigues – which for a brief moment he considered donning to truly surprise Sherlock. Well, perhaps another time when his friend was in a state to appreciate it, and hopefully show his appreciation.

John put the scuffed cardboard box on the bed and opened it. It contained memorabilia from his childhood and schooldays. He withdrew an oblong leather case, flipped open the lid and studied its inhabitant. He smiled wryly, then reached out to pick up the parts and assemble the clarinet, relieved his hands still remembered which part went where. Then he lifted it to his mouth and placed his fingers on the holes and keys. To his surprise, even though he hadn’t played or even picked up the instrument in decades, his fingers still remembered what to do. He wasn’t sure he was going to produce any decent sound, but it was worth a try, if only to take Sherlock’s mind off his own misery and provide him with a reason to ridicule John.

Turning to go, his eyes fell on some of the other items in the box, among them a well-thumbed copy of _Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy_ which he’d received as a Christmas gift from his father, the year before he had fallen ill. The book was almost falling apart now, but nevertheless held very deep memories for John. It had been one of his dad’s favourite novels, and whenever John had read it, he had felt close to his old man.

An idea struck John at the memory. Sherlock had once mentioned that his father had read Tolkien to him as a child, before things had turned pear-shaped between them. John’s eyes fell lingered on his copy of _The Lord of the Rings_ on his bookshelf, also showing signs of wear because he had had it with him in Afghanistan, where it had helped him through the worst bouts of boredom. It had also functioned as an escape route from grief over fallen comrades, or injustice and horrors witnessed during the deployments. He knew Sherlock associated childhood memories with Tolkien. Perhaps it was wrong to bring them up now when he was so distressed and clearly unwilling to confront his past when it came to his family. But on the other hand … maybe a reminder like this was just the incentive he needed to open up, to talk, perchance.

Biting his lip, John reached for the book, and then grabbed _The Hobbit,_ too, for good measure. A moment later he dropped both of them on the duvet again and reached for the t-shirt and pyjama bottoms he slept in. Quickly, he changed into his night gear, hoping he’d be invited to stay the night. Switching off the light and dashing downstairs again, he hoped that Sherlock had managed to stay out of trouble for five minutes.

 

**- <o>-**

 

Approaching Sherlock’s bedroom, he spotted Sherlock sitting on his bed, his violin in hand, looking down at the notes he had scribbled previously with a deep frown. Gently setting down the books in front of the bathroom door, John lifted the clarinet to his lips, deliberated for a moment whether he had placed his fingers correctly, then blew an A

Sherlock jumped at the sound, and looked towards John with an expression of utter surprise. Then with a faint smile playing round his lips, he picked up his bow and played an answering note. They tuned their respective instruments while John advanced into the room.

“I can only play a few pieces,” he stated apologetically, “and likely none of them well, either. But we could give it a try, what do you think?”

Sherlock inclined his head, looking intrigued. “Start playing and I will join you.”

And John did. To his surprise, after a somewhat rough start, he managed to play _Greensleeves_ by heart without any grave mistakes. Sherlock was obviously familiar with the tune. He joined in after the first few notes and even embellished the melody. After they’d played the piece once, Sherlock kept going, and they made it through a second time which already showed great improvement on John’s part. All in all it went far better than John had feared, even though he felt that the dexterity of his fingers and his lung capacity left much to be desired.

Sherlock didn’t complain, however, and when the piece was over, he looked up at John with a gentle, grateful expression that touched John deeply. “We should do that more often,” said Sherlock.

John laughed softly. “I’d have to practice a lot to even come close to your mastery. I’m amazed you didn’t tell me to stop right away. My playing must have sounded awful to your delicate ears. But yeah, we could.”

“Considering you haven’t played in decades, you weren’t altogether awful. Your hands obviously remembered the fingering. Muscle memory. Your sound leaves some to be wished for, but with practice, you should improve.

“Reminds me a bit of what the protagonists are doing in _Master and Commander,_ only that one plays the cello instead of the clarinet.”

At Sherlock’s questioning glance, he wiggled his eyebrows. “You’d like that film, I’m sure of it. Great atmosphere and attention to historical detail. Some period science, too. They filmed on Galapagos. And lots of men in naval uniforms. The books are very good, too. I’ll get you one for Christmas. But for now …”

Carefully, he set down his instrument on the floor under the window and went to pick up the books he had brought. He nodded to Sherlock to scoot over. Sherlock cleared away the papers and placed his violin on the chest of drawers next to the bed, rather precariously setting it on top of two stacks of books and a glass beaker containing some dark liquid. John gave the arrangement a concerned glance, but since Sherlock seemed convinced of his beloved Strad’s safe resting place, he decided not to worry. He slid under the covers and held up the books for Sherlock to peruse the covers. “ _Hobbit_ or _Lord of the Rings_?” he asked.

Sherlock had joined him under the blanket and was eyeing the books suspiciously. “I know why you chose them,” he said darkly.

“Enlighten me. Why did I choose them?”

Sherlock frowned. “Because I once mentioned that my father read _The Hobbit_ to me when I was little. I told you, John, I don’t want to talk about him. And I don’t want to be reminded of the encounter. You can try and appeal to what you consider to be my sentimental side as much as you like.”

“You don’t have to talk at all,” said John lightly, arranging the pillow so he could lie and read comfortably without cricking his neck. “In fact, I’d prefer for you to settle down and shut up for once, so that I can read to you. Just tell me which book.”

Sherlock scowled at him, obviously warring with himself. At length with a huff, he arranged his long limbs, lying stiffly on his back with his hands steepled on his chest, staring at the ceiling. “ _Lord of the Rings,_ ” he muttered gruffly. “And please don’t try to sing.”

John laughed. “Shit. I was about to read you the bit about Tom Bombadil, all the songs included, of course.”

Sherlock snorted. John gave him a quick glance, and was pleased to see a faint smile glittering in his eyes, which Sherlock closed the moment he felt John’s gaze on him.

“Any preferences?”

Sherlock shook his head. John leafed through the book, eyeing Sherlock carefully and noting the tension in his body. So far, Sherlock had played along and had let John distract him. John was pleased about the level of trust this indicated. He didn’t want to impair that trust by forcing Sherlock to deal with issues he clearly wanted to forget right now. On the other hand, simply reading a random passage out of context just for distraction’s sake seemed pointless. Sherlock was likely to lose interest and stop listening. John bit his lip as he perused the chapter headings. Then making up his mind, he thumbed through the pages until he reached the chapter he’d been looking for. Wriggling around until he lay comfortably, he started to read.

Sherlock’s eyes opened and narrowed almost immediately when he heard the chapter title. “Interesting choice for a light, distracting lecture,” he rumbled archly.

John shrugged. “You protested at Tom Bombadil, so now you’ll get “The Siege of Gondor” instead. So get ready for some battle, bloodshed and personal bravery.”

“Yes, and a father-son-conflict that ends badly. How very fitting.”

John sighed, lowering the book. “Sherlock, if you don’t want me to read this, it’s okay. Simply say so. I just thought … ”

Sherlock gazed at the ceiling for a while, then shrugged. “Read,” he instructed, and closed his eyes again.

So John read. It took him a few sentences to get used to the slightly antiquated language, but then it began to flow. He hadn’t read Tolkien for quite some time, and had honestly forgotten some of the events that took place in the chapter. But he remembered the sense of encroaching darkness as the siege of Minas Tirith advanced and a day began without dawn. He remembered how as a teenager he had sat spell-bound and read deep into the night to see whether Gondor would be saved. Now, he was even more stricken by the depiction of the relationship between Denethor and Faramir, father and son, the former coldly rebuking the other for a decision made in good faith, and implying that he’d have preferred his younger son Faramir to perish instead of his beloved elder brother Boromir, ultimately sending the younger to certain death in battle with harsh words, only to suffer utter heart-break seeing him return from the battle-field with a seemingly mortal wound.

 _Shit,_ thought John, _I honestly didn’t remember that all this happened in this chapter._ He cast a worried glance at Sherlock. He was lying very still and quiet at his side, his eyes still closed. His face had paled, however, and as John looked on, he saw him swallow a few times. Carefully, he reached out and ran his hand over Sherlock’s curls. Sherlock drew a shaky breath, then with a sudden, fierce movement he shifted onto his side and curled in on himself, resting his head on John’s shoulder and sneaking his left arm over John’s chest to hold on to his t-shirt like a drowning man to a life-raft. John felt his shoulders tremble slightly and heart him sniff. _Fuck,_ he thought, not knowing whether he should say something _._ What did one say when one’s best friend and love of one’s life cried at one’s shoulder? And why was he crying anyway? Sure, the passage John had just read had likely struck a chord. Perhaps it had brought up memories of a childhood yet unspoilt by an absent father. Perhaps Sherlock was wondering how things might have been had Mr. Holmes stayed. Would he have had a normal, happy childhood? John had always been under the impression that despite the separation of his parents and his solitude at school, Sherlock had not considered his childhood an unhappy time. But apparently sentiment – or regret – ran deeper than John had anticipated.

Should he address Sherlock’s grief at all? John knew for a fact that if their places were exchanged, he would hate had Sherlock alluded to his state. John’s instinct, and indeed his desire, was not to mention anything. God, he was so bad at this stuff. If he was honest, he was worse than Sherlock at talking about emotions. Sherlock didn’t usually let on much, but when he did, he was surprisingly frank and forthcoming. The same went for showing emotion, it seemed. When Sherlock felt like divulging his inner state, he did so wholeheartedly. Thus, John thought it best to let him weep silently. He continued to lightly stroke his hair to show his support.

“Read on,” a gruff order sounded hoarsely from under the mop of curls.

John obeyed, taking the command as a plea not to address Sherlock’s present distress. Thus with a heavy heart, he followed Pippin as he witnessed Denethor succumb to grief over what he believed to be the death of his only remaining son and the impending defeat of his country. The he followed the hobbit’s quest to save Faramir. He read the descriptions of the siege with its terror and violence. They were less explicit than many other things he had read, both in novels and professional reports. Moreover he had seen and experienced battle first hand. Yet he found them poignant and true in their depiction of dread and terror, indicating to him that the author was a fellow soldier, and officer, even, who had witnessed war and bloodshed at the Somme like John had in Afghanistan.

He forgot all that when he reached the final two pages of the chapter. Sherlock’s trembling had eased slightly, but he still appeared to be weeping softly, going by his sniffs and the gradual soaking of John’s t-shirt where his face rested. John tried to give him as much privacy as possible by simply holding him and stroking his hair occasionally. Reading helped distract him from Sherlock’s state, because the story had thoroughly sucked him in. The Lord of the Nazgûl had appeared on the scene. The gates of the city had been forced open. Only Gandalf and his faithful horse were opposing the dreadful foe now. And then … John felt a shiver run through his body, the hairs on his arms standing on end. He’d always loved that last passage. Even Sherlock’s mood seemed to have changed. He sniffed once more before quickly scrubbing at his eyes, seemingly shifting his attention back to the story.

John read on, his voice thick with emotion, _“Gandalf did not move. And in that very moment, away behind in some courtyard of the City, a cock crowed. Shrill and clear he crowed, recking nothing of wizardry or war, welcoming only the morning that in the sky far above the shadows of death was coming with the dawn._

“ _And as if in answer there came from far away another note. Horns, horns, horns. In dark Mindolluin’s sides they dimly echoed. Great horns of the North wildly blowing. Rohan had come at last.”_

John drew a deep breath and closed the book. Sherlock’s grip on his t-shirt had loosened, his hand was now resting on John’s chest. There were tear stains on his cheeks and nose. John pretended he didn’t see them.

For a while, neither spoke. John wondered whether he was supposed to continue reading, but Sherlock made no indication. At length, however, he stirred slightly. “They never made up,” he said quietly.

“Who?” asked John.

“Faramir and his father. Denethor committed suicide before his son regained consciousness. They never had the chance to reconcile. Tolkien was rather cruel at times. Or perhaps he was just realistic.”

John bit his lip. “Well, if there is something to be learned from the story, it’s that if you have the chance to talk and clear things up, you should take it. Regardless of how fucked up things seem at first. Look at the two of us. What if I’d never forgiven you for what you put me through? What if I’d simply turned round, that evening when you suddenly showed up in Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen, and walked back out?”

Sherlock let out a shuddering breath. “I don’t know. I’d have tried to talk to you again. Tried to convince you that there’d been no other way than to do what I did.”

“And if I’d refused to see you ever again? If I’d refused to listen at all?”

Sherlock lifted his shoulder in a shrug. “I’d have asked Mycroft to send me back in the field. Preferably on a dangerous mission. I wouldn’t have stayed in London, and I likely wouldn’t have returned.”

John nodded gravely, looping his arm round Sherlock’s shoulder and drawing him closer. He bent his head to drop a kiss onto the dark curls. “As if I could not have forgiven you,” he said. “I just told Mrs. Hudson that you’re the best thing that ever happened to me. I mentioned that to your father as well, by the way. Because it’s true.”

He felt Sherlock swallow. His hand holding on to his t-shirt tightened once more. “Thank you, John,” he muttered hoarsely, sniffing again.

John felt his heart seize with both love and pity again. “I’d thank you for not getting any snot on my t-shirt,” John told him, trying to lighten the mood. Sherlock laughed roughly and sniffed once more.

“Get me a tissue, then,” he requested, trying to sound imperious and failing.

John looked about the room. “Got any in here?”

“No, I don’t think so. But there should be a roll of toilet paper somewhere. Under the bed, perhaps.”

“I’m not blindly feeling under your bed, Sherlock. There could be all kinds of weird things lurking down there. I don’t want to get my hand bitten off, thank you very much.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m being realistic.”

Sherlock grumbled something, before he extracted himself from John’s embrace to stalk off into the bathroom. John heard him blow his nose rather noisily and use the toilet. After he had washed his hands and face, he returned to the bedroom and stood next to the bed, looking down at John uncertainly. He looked rather a mess, his face pale and blotchy, his eyes reddened from crying. “Will you stay here tonight?” he asked, with a hint of insecurity.

“If you want me to.”

“Despite the monsters that may or may not be lurking under the bed?”

John chuckled. “I’ve got my own monsters up in my room, and they tend to be peaceful when you keep me company. Hope yours are the same. Let me just brush my teeth.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

A brief visit to the bathroom later – where, to his surprise, John found that Sherlock had actually rinsed his cycling gear and hung it up to dry –, they had resumed their previous positions in Sherlock’s bed, which, John had to admit, was rather more comfortable than his own. Moreover, it smelled like Sherlock, which John considered an additional bonus.

Sherlock had switched off the light, so that the only illumination in the room was the soft orange glow from the street lamps filtering through the small window. Sherlock lay with his head on John’s shoulder. His breathing was low and even, but John could feel the residual tension in his body, which indicated he hadn’t fallen asleep yet.

“Want me to read some more?” he asked.

Sherlock shook his head. “Another time,” he said and fell silent again.

They lay quietly for a while. John was beginning to feel drowsy listening to Sherlock’s breathing and feeling his steady heartbeat, but was startled awake when Sherlock stirred. “I rather messed it up today, didn’t I?”

John sighed. “Both of you, I think. But you’re not to blame. Your father cocked it up far more than you did. I think if I’d been in your situation, confronted so unexpectedly with someone who wronged me and then hearing little more than insolence and accusations from them, I’d have punched them. I nearly gave your dad a bloody nose. Next time, you should talk when both are prepared for the encounter, and have had time to think beforehand about what you’re going to say. Some impartial moderator should be present, too.”

“This implies you want me to talk to him again.”

“What I want doesn’t matter. You’ll have to want it. And he, too, I guess, although he did indicate that he was willing to try again, and on your terms this time. I just think … well, it’s never good to let these things fester. Today didn’t go well, but I do believe your father came with good intentions. He’s just rubbish at expressing those. And nobody expects you to forgive and embrace him right away. Have you ever spoken with Mycroft about how he thinks about the matter?”

Sherlock huffed derisively and John rolled his eyes. “Thought so. That could be a wise first step.”

“As if that were more pleasant, talking to Mycroft, and moreover having to listen to him blubber on about family matters. As if he ever cared about those.”

“Oh come on, he may be stiff and pompous, your brother, but I think he genuinely cares about you. And you about him. Although you, too, are rubbish at expressing these things, if I may say so.”

“Am I?” enquired Sherlock, pressing closer and lifting his head from John’s shoulder to gaze at him. “Says he who loathes to talk about anything even remotely personal and who usually keeps his private thoughts and feelings under lock and key.”

“Touché,” said John. “Makes two of us, doesn’t it?”

Sherlock shrugged, resting his head on John’s shoulder again. “Apparently yes. It’s rather a marvel that we managed to end in here after all. In bed, I mean. Together.”

John laughed softly. “Yeah, I guess. I told you before, it’s new for me, too, this kind of thing. Conducting a relationship like this, I mean. Not because you’re a bloke, but because you’re my best friend. Or were, before we became … what we are now.”

He felt Sherlock smile against his shoulder.

“Am I rubbish at expressing my affection for you, too?” he asked.

John chuckled softly. “Well, you’re on a steep learning curve in that area, I’d say. But there’s always room for improvement.”

Sherlock lifted and cocked his head, looking thoughtful. “I see. Mind if I practice a little?”

John smiled. “Nope. Feel free.”

Sherlock flashed him a brief but warm smile. Then he leaned in and kissed him. He started out gently and almost experimentally as was his wont, but soon he grew bolder when John began to return his affections. John’s arms sneaked round his torso to embrace him lightly, while Sherlock’s free hand roamed over John’s chest to ultimately settle on his right shoulder, while he used his other arm to prop himself up.

They kissed for a long time, unhurriedly, almost chastely, just a gentle touch and slide of lips. John wondered whether Sherlock had drifted off into his mind palace or was even falling asleep, when suddenly, the intensity of the kisses changed. Sherlock’s tongue made an appearance, he began to suck and nibble on John’s lips. Then there was hint of more teeth, a deeper invasion of John’s mouth, and altogether more force and emotion. Sherlock’s grip on John’s shoulder tightened before his hand moved to his nape where he wound his long fingers into his hair, angling John’s head for better access to his mouth. The tension in his body became more noticeable as he drew closer and pressed himself against John’s side. Soft kissing morphed into deep, passionate snogging.

Whenever Sherlock remembered to take in air at all as he still hadn’t quite mastered to breathe through his nose while kissing – or else he was too distracted and excited right now –, his previously gentle puffs and sighs became brief gasps and hastily gulped in breaths. There was some low moaning, too. With their bodies pressed close together, John could feel his increasing arousal. His nether regions, too, announced an interest in the proceedings, but he didn’t do anything about it just yet, intrigued and curious as he was about what was happening with Sherlock, who seemed to be bending all his energy and focus on kissing John like his life depended on it. It felt like he was pouring all his unspoken, pent up emotions and frustration into this one activity. And oh, was it exhilarating. John doubted he’d ever been kissed like this, with so much focus and attention. Kissing, for him, had mostly only ever been foreplay. He’d rarely kissed someone for the sake of it. But Sherlock liked kissing. He had said so repeatedly, and John knew from their previous intimate activities that he’d not been lying. And if he’d ever needed irrefutable proof, here it was. Sherlock kissed for the sake of it. And John found he rather liked it, too. A lot, to be honest.

Still, John couldn’t help wondering whether Sherlock expected more to come of this activity, whether John was expected to touch him other than carefully holding him in place. Sherlock made no move towards putting his hands on John apart from holding his head at the perfect angle for snogging the life out of him. He simply kissed, and kissed, and kissed until John felt dizzy and his lips tingled and the skin around his mouth began to feel itchy from the scratch of Sherlock’s faint stubble. John kissed back with increasing force, which only seemed to cheer Sherlock on to up his game.

Carefully, John let one of his hands slide down Sherlock’s back. When it reached the waistband of his pyjama bottoms and the sliver of skin where Sherlock’s t-shirt had ridden up, suddenly Sherlock let out a long breath. His body stilled. He finally detached his mouth from John’s and rather abruptly buried his face in the crook of John’s neck where he exhaled wetly and shakily against the flushed skin of John’s throat. John felt his body shudder and tremble, and then lie still but for deep, heaving breaths. Something wet and warm seeped through the fabric of John’s trousers from where Sherlocks crotch had rubbed against his thigh.

 _Oh shit._ He tried to look at Sherlock, but he had completely hidden his face. He was still breathing huffily, his body limp and heavy with faint aftershocks racing through it as he lay half on top of John. John felt him swallow a few times. John wondered what was going in his mind, whether he was feeling overwhelmed or embarrassed. Likely both, he reasoned. According to his knowledge, this had been the first time Sherlock had experienced an orgasm in the company of somebody else, his unfortunate nightly incident back at school aside.

When Sherlock didn’t give any indication of moving or even stirring, John rubbed his trembling shoulder lightly. “You okay?” he asked, as neutrally as he could manage. “You haven’t passed out, have you?”

Sherlock shook his head without lifting it from its hiding place. John wondered how he managed to breathe at all down there. “Interestingly, I haven’t,” muttered Sherlock at length, his voice muffled and barely audible. He lay still for a moment, before speaking again. “That was unexpected.”

John smiled. “Yeah, it was, a bit. But not unwelcome, I hope?”

Sherlock shrugged.

John felt he should clarify. “It didn’t bother me, in case you’re worried. In fact, I think that was the most intense, touching and erotic thing I’ve ever experienced.”

Sherlock extricated his head from John’s neck and gazed at him. His cheeks were flushed and his lips looked like he had applied a generous helping of lipstick all round them. His eyes were large and dark in his angular face. To John he looked incredibly young.

“It was?” he asked with a trace of genuine wonder.

John squeezed his shoulder affectionately. “Absolutely. You’re the first person I know who managed to come from kissing alone.”

Sherlock cast down his eyes, a flush deepening on his high cheekbones. “That’s flattering for you, perhaps, having been the one to render me in this state. But for me it’s embarrassing. I didn’t plan to be affected this way. I hate being so overwhelmed – indeed enslaved – by my transport.”

“You enjoyed it, though, didn’t you?” needled John.

Sherlock shrugged, his eyes still on the blanket between them. At length he drew a breath and lifted his gaze to John’s. If possible, Sherlock had blushed even deeper. “Well, I guess this proves one thing.”

“And which one is that?”

“I _really_ like kissing. _Quod erat demonstrandum,_ I’d say.”

“Q. e. d., indeed,” agreed John, and they both started to laugh.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The illustration for this chapter is called "[Danger Night](http://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/134742838488/danger-night-illustration-and-teaser-for-the)".  
> 


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it. After more than two years and almost 200k words, this story is finally complete. Thanks so much to everybody who commented or left kudos, and who patiently followed this tale. As you will see, not all the storylines get resolved in this final chapter. I have plans for a sequel, but first I'd like to finish some of my other fics, namely [_The Horse and his Doctor_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3591864/chapters/7921857) and [_Enigma_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1991325/chapters/4313418). Hope you'll bear with me.

“So this is your idea of a proper scientific experiment, then,” teased John, having regained some breath after laughing heartily with Sherlock chuckling next to him.  
  
“It’s only a proper experiment if it is repeated a few times under the same conditions to verify the results,” replied Sherlock, trying to look and sound serious and failing. John was pleased to see him so relaxed and happy after his obvious misery only a short while ago. Oxytocin and serotonin, he knew were to blame, and he secretly vowed to make Sherlock experience orgasm more often if it achieved such an improvement in his mood.  
  
John grinned at him. “Is that so? Does that mean you’ll want to spoil another pair of pyjama bottoms in the near future?”  
  
Briefly, Sherlock looked affronted and slightly embarrassed again, but then shrugged. “Not the near future, maybe, but eventually. It wasn’t altogether unpleasant.”  
  
“Haha, that must be the understatement of the year.”  
  
“Don’t flatter yourself too much, John. I did most of the work.”  
  
John raised a stern eyebrow, causing Sherlock to laugh again. Sherlock gazed at him fondly, before his expression changed and his eyes narrowed. “You didn’t climax,” he stated, waving his hand in the vague direction of John’s groin. “Do you want me to reciprocate?”  
  
John shook his head. His arousal had abated somewhat, and he was feeling comfortably turned on but in no immediate need to do anything about it. In truth, he rather preferred staying like this, warm and relaxed, with a soft and pliant Sherlock snuggled up against him.  
  
“Don’t worry about me. I’m fine. I guess you have a lot of things to file away in your mind palace now, and so have I. Not that I have a mind palace. More a shack, perhaps, compared to that grandiose structure of yours. Still, this has been quite an experience, for me as well. So it’s perfectly okay for me to stay like this for now. Also, I could do with a bit of sleep, to be honest.”  
  
Sherlock looked at him doubtfully, a line appearing between his brows. John hoped he wasn’t taking his words as a rejection. “Are you sure?”  
  
“Yep. I do appreciate your offer, and I intend to take you up on it some other time, if you don’t mind. For now, I’m really happy and comfortable just like this.”  
  
Sherlock studied his features, as if to ascertain he was speaking the truth, then inclined his head. Leaning in to peck John lightly on the lips, he settled down next to him, his head once more pillowed on John’s chest. However, after a short while he stirred again.  
  
“John ... erm ... would you mind braving the monsters under the bed after all to hunt for the toilet paper? As you rightly pointed out, I appear to have made a bit of a mess in my trousers, and it’s starting to feel uncomfortable.”  
  
John chuckled and stretched to be able to reach under the bed. “The things I do for you.”  
  
“Well, you’re to blame I’m all sticky now.”  
  
“Hey, careful. Didn’t you just claim that you did all the work. I didn’t even touch you intimately. But okay, just give me a mo— Sherlock, what is that under the bed? It feels like some kind of animal.”  
  
“Oh, that would likely be samples of wool, fur and plant matter. I’m writing a treatise on the various properties of natural fibres.”  
  
“How nice. Bet there is a crying need for that. But do you require the owners of said fibres to still be attached?”  
  
“No. Well, yes, in the case of the—”  
  
“God, I don’t think I really want to know. Hope they’re dead, at least, and not in some gross state of decomposition. Hey, is that my Aran jumper?”  
  
John leaned further over the edge of the bed and withdrew what he hoped was the garment in question and not some nasty animal part. It looked rather worse for wear. Dust mice had settled on it, and the cuff of one sleeve was frayed as if someone – a certain someone, John was sure – had cut or pulled fibres out of it. The loose ends looked like they had been singed. There were yellow stains likely caused by nitric acid, too.  
  
Sherlock had the decency to look guilty. “I needed this particular kind of sheep wool for my study.”  
  
Switching on the light, John blinked briefly until his eyes had adjusted to it. Then he held up the jumper he’d actually been searching for all over the flat and inspected it for further damage apart from the ruined sleeve. He couldn’t find any obvious holes or tears. He did, however, spot some dark hairs sticking to the light grey wool. He gazed at Sherlock while picking one up and holding it out to him.  
  
“Care to explain?”  
  
Sherlock bit his lip. “You’d left the jumper in your wardrobe upstairs when you moved out. I found it after my return. Back then things were still unsettled between us. I wasn’t sure you’d move back in. I wasn’t even sure if you’d forgive me and we’d manage to salvage what was left of our friendship. I didn’t dare to hope for more at this point.”  
  
John swallowed, looking at the jumper, then back at Sherlock. “Did you use it as a pillow?”  
  
Sherlock drew a breath, then facing John steadily, he nodded. “Occasionally. It’s rather scratchy and uncomfortable, just so you know. But it still smelled of you, faintly.  Well, mostly it smells of sheep. But still. I found it ... comforting.”  
  
“Oh Sherlock,” muttered John, reaching out to squeeze his hand, before leaning in to kiss him. Drawing back, he ran his hand along the other’s jaw. “I kept your scarf, bloodstains and all,” he confessed. “Your coat had vanished. I guess Molly or Mycroft took care of it. But the scarf I managed to retrieve. I treasured it, kept it locked away. I only handled it when things got too dark, and when I missed you so much I felt I couldn’t breathe. I just needed a reminder that you’d in fact been alive and real, and not just a figment of my imagination. It hurt terribly, but it helped, handling that scarf.”  
  
Sherlock gave him a soft, sad smile. “I am sorry, John, for what I had to put you through. I truly am. But as I told you before, I would do it again. I would do anything, anything, to keep you safe.”  
  
John swallowed. “I know. It frightens me, sometimes, to think of the things you might do for me. Or I for you.”  
  
Sherlock nodded. “Me, too.”  
  
Then his eyes lit up, and his grave expression was replaced by an excited one. “If you’ve still got the scarf, it’d be a splendid addition to my collection of fibre samples. I recall that it was a rather unique blend of cashmere and merino wool.”  
  
Noticing John’s beady gaze, he faltered. “What? You’ve got the real me back now. You don’t need the old scarf anymore. Or is this sentiment?”  
  
John sighed, and leaning down again to grope some more under the bed, he found the roll of toilet paper, which he tossed at Sherlock. “Yes, Sherlock, that’s sentiment. Here, wipe yourself off before you get even more sticky.”  
  
Sherlock snorted but did as he was bidden. After carelessly disposing of the paper over his side of the bed, he snuggled up to John once more, who switched off the bedside lamp.  
  
“Feeling better now?”  
  
“Interestingly, yes. I’m more relaxed, which I assume is due to physical exhaustion and the endorphins still coursing through my system. Is that what is generally referred to as ‘blowing off steam’.”  
  
“You could say so.”  
  
“Interesting. I’ve never felt quite like this after masturbating.”  
  
John smiled, looking up at the dark ceiling. They lay in silence for a while. John felt his eyelids droop as next to him, Sherlock’s breathing evened out. But eventually, he felt the other stir again and even tense a little.  
  
“Is it Alzheimers?”  
  
John let out a breath, knowing what was lingering on his friend’s mind. “No. Apparently it’s an aneurysm in his brain. It’s not clear yet if surgery is possible or even advisable.”  
  
He felt Sherlock nod against his chest. “Jeff Hope had one, did you know? The murderous cabbie. He told me that outliving those he’d killed was the most fun one could possibly have in his condition. Not sure I agree, though.”  
  
“Well, your father didn’t strike me as a potential serial killer. Unpleasant bloke, yes, but not a murderer.”  
  
“No, murder is not is style,” agreed Sherlock and fell silent again.  
  
“Did your mother know about your ‘death’?” asked John. “I mean, your father obviously didn’t, apart from what he read in the papers. But your mum ... From what you mentioned about her I’ve always had the impression that she wasn’t as completely out of the picture as your father.”  
  
“Mycroft informed her,” answered Sherlock. “I assume he even told her the truth, or as much of it as he could to ensure my relative safety out there.”  
  
John nodded to himself. “That’s why she wasn’t present at your funeral. I wondered about that, as much as I was capable of wondering about anything at the time.”  
  
He thought for a moment, before another thing he’d always wanted to ask Sherlock popped into his mind. “Did she know about your drug habit, too?”  
  
Sherlock let out a sigh. “It wasn’t a habit, John,” he stated petulantly. “Didn’t you listen when I tried to explain earlier.”  
  
John rolled his eyes. “Did she know about your attempts at self-medication with Class A drugs, then? Doesn’t sound much better put that way, does it? And I did listen, and I do worry, still. Always. Because I’ve been around my sister and her repeated attempts at sobriety for too long. But I also trust you, because I’ve seen, particularly today, that you do try and fight the need for drugs. I’m rather impressed that you seem to have kicked your smoking habit – and yes, that was a habit – for good, even though by somewhat unusual means.”  
  
He felt Sherlock scowl against his chest and neck. “Having to endure gross kisses from a chain-smoker does that to one.”  
  
John squeezed his shoulder gently and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. Sherlock sighed. “My mother did know about the cocaine. She expressed her stern disapproval and disappointment on various occasions. She tends to express her disappointment quite often when I am concerned, although she seems to have finally made her peace with my choice of occupation and lifestyle, and the fact that I’m never going to bend all my energy on achieving the Nobel Prize, unless it be for my attempts to find a remedy for the alarming decline of bee populations around the world.”  
  
John smiled at the statement. “I thought she was after the Nobel Prize for herself.”  
  
“Actually, her chances aren’t too bad, despite the still rampant sexism in her field. She’s been overlooked in favour of male colleagues twice now, I think, which certainly didn’t improve her mood. It did, however, make her more determined than ever to prove her mettle.”  
  
“Did she ever regret taking a break from her studies in order to raise a family?” inquired John.  
  
Sherlock gave a light shrug. “As I mentioned before, Mycroft seems to have been planned. And he must have been a model child, good as he is at fitting in, at least on the outside. I ... not so much. I was either planned nor turned out to be the ideal offspring but rather the opposite: moody, my energy and desire to lean barely containable. I was constantly demanding new intellectual challenges. Unfortunately, I seem to have required emotional support, too, far more than Mycroft. But she never gave me the impression of being inconvenient or unloved. Unlike ... other people. She just had other priorities, and as soon as I was able to fend for myself, she concentrated on her own work again. And I didn’t mind. I just minded that later, she tried to influence my choice of career. She organised my year-long stay in Heidelberg. I could have returned there for a PhD in organic chemistry after graduating from Cambridge. In fact, I was expected to return. But I found the prospect of devoting myself entirely to research and having to constantly battle for funding exceedingly boring. The prospect of a constant requirement for teamwork didn’t ingratiate itself to me, either. So I declined the position, travelled Europe for a bit and then went to the States instead.”  
  
“Was this when you met Mrs. Hudson?”  
  
“Yes. That was a stroke of luck, for both of us, as it turned out.”  
  
“Indeed,” agreed John. “I still can’t believe that her husband ran a drug cartel over there. What did she do? I mean, she must have known, as least some of what he was up to.”  
  
“She functioned as his secretary for a while. And she also danced in one of his clubs. You can look her up on youtube.”  
  
John burst out laughing. “What? Seriously?”  
  
Sherlock nodded, grinning. “Exotic dancing, yes. She seems to have been quite a stunner, our Martha Hudson.”  
  
“Oh my God,” giggled John, biting into his hand to stifle his laughter, a picture of their landlady dancing half naked adorned with veils and a fancy headdress, Mata Hari style, flashing through his mind’s. “Did you actually see her like this, live on stage, I mean?”  
  
Sherlock shook his head. “Her dancing days were already over by the time I met her. But I learned of her past occupation when she interviewed me. In order to investigate the nightclubs, I had to blend in. So I applied as a dancer myself.”  
  
John’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline. “You, a dancer?” he asked in surprise. But when he thought about it, the idea didn’t seem so preposterous. Sherlock definitely had the looks and figure to pull it off, and moreover he moved with a grace and poise that spoke of great body control, almost hinted at formal training. John knew that despite his slender frame, he was strong and fit. And he was musical.  
  
“Yes. Why does that surprise you?”  
  
“It ... just ... never mind. What kind of dancing did you do?”  
  
Sherlock snorted. “Not what you’re obviously thinking right now. Nothing as daring as Mrs. Hudson. I kept all my clothes on, in case you’re worried. It was standard dancing, most of the time. The club was a formal venue for rich pensioners, at least that was its legal-ish front. The real business was done in the back. My job was to entertain mostly elderly ladies, and well, dance with them, even teach them, if they wanted to. Waltz, Tango, Cha Cha, the lot.”  
  
John frowned at him. “You almost sound like you enjoyed it.”  
  
“Actually, I did, unless my partners were entirely inept at it.”  
  
John smiled at him gently. “You like dancing?” he asked incredulously.  
  
“Yes,” said Sherlock plainly but emphatically.  
  
John shook his head. “Wow.”  
  
Sherlock lifted his head and frowned at him. “Why does that astonish you so much?”  
  
John shrugged. “Come to think of it, it doesn’t. It’s just that usually, you dislike being touched by strangers. And dancing can be very intimate and, well, sentimental. But you must have been rather good at it to get a job like that. I mean, I might be able to manage a waltz, but I couldn’t dance a tango from scratch. And when you were employed there, you must have been really convincing, especially when you were posing as a dancing instructor.”  
  
“I was. And I am good at it. I’ve had training at Harrow, and before that I did ballet for three years.”  
  
John stared at him. “Wow. Ballet? That’s ... I really am impressed now. Do you ... can you still do stuff?”  
  
Sherlock shrugged, looking pleased by John’s admiration and excitement, as he so often did when John praised him. “A few poses, yes. I might manage a pirouette or two without falling over. I’d have to practise for most of the other stuff, and built up the relevant musculature and stamina again, not to mention flexibility.”  
  
“Why did you stop?” John wanted to know. “Ballet, I mean, since you obviously enjoyed it.”  
  
“Was sent away to boarding school,” answered Sherlock with a shrug, before falling silent. John wondered whether he regretted dropping out. He vowed to take Sherlock dancing one of these days, preferably after a couple of private lessons in their flat. “You think you could teach me tango and all that stuff?” he enquired, and was touched to see Sherlock’s entire face light up like the sun.  
  
“If you want,” he said. “If I managed to teach rich, arthritic pensioners in Florida, I think I’ll manage to teach my resident doctor and blogger.”  
  
John pinched his side, which earned him a half-suppressed yelp followed by a deep chuckle. “Oi, careful, you. By the way, is there a youtube video of your dancing efforts in Florida, too?”  
  
“If there was, do you really think I’d tell you?”  
  
“I’ll find it.”  
  
“Good luck. Remember, I was undercover. I wasn’t using my real name.”  
  
John grinned to himself. That was a challenge. He might not have Sherlock’s investigative talents, but he did know how to research things online. Also, there was always Mrs. Hudson to ask about Sherlock’s American past, and if she didn’t turn out to be helpful, then Mycroft. An image of Sherlock dressed like the protagonist from Dirty Dancing swirling an elderly, violet-haired lady in a purple dress around flashed through his mind and he chuckled. “Speaking of names ... there’s something your father mentioned.”  
  
Sherlock’s bright mood darkened visibly. “What?”  
  
“He said something about you choosing your first name. Does that mean Sherlock isn’t your real name?”  
  
“It is. Part of it.”  
  
“Meaning you’ve got more than one first name?”  
  
“Indeed I do, _Hamish._ ”  
  
John rolled his eyes. Back when they had first lived together, Sherlock had been intrigued to learn that he had a second name, and had gone to great lengths to try and find out, in the end acquiring his birth certificate when John staunchly refused to tell him.  
  
“Are you going to tell me, or do I need to ask your brother?”  
  
Sherlock glared at him. “William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” he then said solemnly. “You’ll agree that Sherlock is the best of the lot. William is too common and boring, Scott sounds preposterous. Don’t know where they dug it up, or what indeed they were thinking when they used it for me. There wasn’t really a choice but to pick Sherlock.”  
  
John grinned at him. “Oh, I don’t know. You could have gone for ‘Billy’. Or ‘Scotty’. Or ...”  
  
“John, in your own interest you’d better shut up now.”  
  
“Or what?” challenged John, his grin broadening to a mischievous smirk. “Billy.”  
  
“Or this,” growled Sherlock, stabbing his side with a finger. John squirmed. “Nice try, Scotty, but since I’m not as ticklish as you, your evil plan is likely to fail. Unless it’s a not so subtle hint that you want me to retaliate.”  
  
Sherlock glowered. “I knew it was a mistake to tell you.”  
  
“Oh,” soothed John, “don’t be like that. I think it’s kinda touching and also very like you to pick the most unusual name from the lot. Does Mycroft also have other names?”  
  
“One, yes. But it’s not much better. He’s named after our paternal great-grandfather, Sherrinford. But if you want to really rile him, call him ‘Mike’ or ‘Myc’. He hates that.”  
  
John laughed before yawning mightily. “I’ll remember it for future use, should the situation arise. But for now, I think we should really try to sleep. At least I should. I have a shift tomorrow. Good night, _Sherlock._ ”  
  
He stressed Sherlock’s name, and the addressed smiled as he settled against John’s side, gazing at him sleepily. “Good night, John,” he rumbled, and closed his eyes.  
  
John watched him for a while as he lay, marvelling at his good fortune of having met this strange, marvellous, infuriating man and moreover being allowed the enormous and singular privilege of sharing his life and bed. “I love you,” he whispered.  
  
The corner of Sherlock’s mouth not buried in the pillow twitched in a minute smile. His hand snuck out and came to rest on John’s side, squeezing it once. Then it relaxed when Sherlock drifted off entirely.

  
**- <o>-**

  
  
John didn’t know what had woken him. When he opened his eyes, the room was still dark, and he felt like he couldn’t have slept long. Sherlock still lay on his side facing him, but he was awake, too, looking rather groggy and disoriented, like he had also just woken up.  
  
“What time is it?” he murmured, his voice deep and gravelly.  
  
“No idea. Haven’t got my phone here. Where’s yours?”  
  
“Left it in the bathroom, I think. My watch, too.”  
  
“Mine’s upstairs, and I’m not getting up to fetch it.”  
  
Sherlock sighed. “Doesn’t matter.” He briefly glanced over his shoulder towards the window. “According to the lack of daylight outside, the sound of traffic down on Marylebone Road and the fact that the heating hasn’t begun to make noises yet, it must be before six.”  
  
He stretched before settling deeper under the covers again. “Too early to get up.”  
  
“Really?” teased John, feeling more awake. “What happened to your case?”  
  
“Nothing, which is the problem. I hate to admit it, but it looks like we are stuck with the murder of Mr. van de Kerke.”  
  
“Meaning you are stuck. I’m just your fetch and carry person and occasional sounding board. Ah, well, but if you’re not in case mode, I’m all for staying abed for a while, catching some extra sleep. One never knows when one is going to need it, with you and all your running about and the strange hours you keep.”  
  
Sherlock smiled. “So am I.” He lay in thoughtful silence for a while. John had closed his eyes again and was about to drift off when he felt Sherlock stir.  
  
“John ... uhm ... actually ... would you mind not catching up on sleep right now?”  
  
John cracked open an eye. “Hm?”  
  
He heard Sherlock swallow in the darkness. “You can do so later if you have to. But right now ... I mean ... would you be amenable to an ... alternative activity?”  
  
John opened both eyes and looked at him. His heartbeat had picked up. Sherlock had shifted closer to him and was licking his lips. He seemed tense but excited.  
  
“Alternative activity?” enquired John carefully, not sure he was reading Sherlock’s signals correctly. He definitely didn’t want to mess this up, if Sherlock was really asking for what John thought he was.  
  
“Yes. Given that what happened to me last night was quite unplanned and uncoordinated on my behalf, and rather unsatisfactory for you, I was wondering if we could try again. With ... ah ... proper and mutual participation – and satisfaction, hopefully – this time.”  
  
Fighting down the urge to tease him about his awkward choice of words, John smiled, clearing his throat and licking his lips. “Is this your way of asking me if I want to have sex with you?”  
  
Despite the darkness, John thought he could see blood shoot into Sherlock’s pale cheeks. “Yes,” he said plainly. “I seem to have had a rather vivid dream just now and thought before I ... um ... discharge into my trousers again, I should get rid of them. Also, I imagine that it would be more pleasurable for both of us if you were involved in the shedding of said garment and your corresponding attire, and would actually prefer this active involvement to just posing as something for me to rut against.”  
  
John laughed, his heart swelling while at the same time excitement, anxiety and arousal battled within him. “That is very thoughtful of you, Sherlock.”  
  
His mirth sobering a little, he gazed at Sherlock gravely. “You’re sure about this? Here, and now?”  
  
Sherlock nodded. “Quite, yes. I’m terribly excited about it, and admittedly equally apprehensive. But I’m also rather uncomfortably aroused. So ...,” he shrugged, smiling a little sheepishly, “if you would do the honours of deflowering me, I’d be obliged and indeed grateful. I think.”  
  
John ran a hand over his eyes and then pressed it to his mouth, trying to quell the giggles that were threatening to burst forth. “Jesus, Sherlock ... sorry, sorry for laughing. But your choice of words ... oh my God ...”  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes, but then began to chuckle as well. “What would you prefer me to say?”  
  
Sobering up, John shook his head. “Nothing. I’d prefer if you didn’t say anything for a change, because I’m going to kiss you now. And then we can discuss what you’d like me to do. Seriously, Sherlock, this is ... actually, I’m really touched and honoured that you trust me enough to try this with me. Come here, you.”  
  
As before, their kissing started out gently and exploratory. Sherlock was tense and seemed to be quivering with barely suppressed excitement and nerves. John was nervous, too. He wasn’t sure how far Sherlock was planning to take things. John was rather convinced that he didn’t intend for them to have full penetrative sex during their first real encounter. He knew he wasn’t up for that yet. All right, okay, yes, ‘up’ he was. Still, to go that far would require supplies and preparation, and time. John didn’t feel ready to take that step yet, and Sherlock, who seemed overwhelmed by the slightest of intimate touches ... well. Better proceed gently and carefully for a start.  
  
Sherlock was quite aroused, like he had claimed. John could feel it plainly when Sherlock pressed up against him, one of his legs slipping between his own. He wondered whether Sherlock would actually last past the kissing stage if they kept things going like this. The kissing had gradually become more and more passionate with Sherlock’s tongue caressing John’s with increasing skill and ardour.  
  
When John felt close to coming from kissing himself, he drew back gently. Looking at Sherlock who was gazing back at him with dark eyes under a mop of sleep-tousled hair, he asked softly, “How do you want to go about this?”  
  
Sherlock frowned, bit his lip, then let out a frustrated breath. “How should I know. You’re the expert.”  
  
John chuckled. “Not on gay sex. I’m as much a beginner here as you are. So ... don’t know. What do you enjoy when you touch yourself?”  
  
Sherlock shrugged. “It’s just my hand rubbing my penis, John.”  
  
“Yes, but does your hand do anything particular to your penis? Do you have special thoughts, fantasies? What was your dream about?”  
  
“I don’t remember clearly. Just warmth and ... friction. Things that felt good.”  
  
“What things?”  
  
Sherlock sighed with exasperation. “I thought you wanted me to stop talking, John,” he announced reproachfully. “And now here you are questioning me about intimate matters.”  
  
“Yeah, well, sorry about that, but that’s what sex is about, too, you know. Talking about things you enjoy. Things that feel good. I want to get this right, Sherlock.”  
  
Sherlock bit his lip. “I recall that you touched me. There was kissing, too. you did something with your tongue in my mouth, like last night, when you ... when you sucked on mine.” He swallowed. “I think I’d like you to do that again, and more. Also ... perhaps we should get rid of our clothes.”  
  
John smiled warmly at him. “Sounds like a good plan. May I, then?”  
  
“Please,” said Sherlock lying down on his back and looking up at John expectantly. John could see the pulse beating in his long neck. His cheeks were flushed and his lips reddened and slightly swollen from kissing. He looked utterly beautiful, and very, very human, far removed from the cold, calculated image he liked to present to the world.  
  
_Well, no pressure, then,_ thought John as he propped himself up on one elbow and reached out to gently run his hand down the side of Sherlock’s face, down his throat to then follow the line of one clearly defined clavicle where it peeked out of the collar of his t-shirt. Sherlock made a soft sound and leaned into the touch. John continued his tender exploration down Sherlock’s arm to his hand, which he lifted to his mouth and kissed. Sherlock’s breathing accelerated. John could feel his heartbeat in his wrist, fast and strong.  
  
“John,” murmured Sherlock hoarsely, “I think you should speed up a bit. Otherwise ...,” he nodded towards his nether regions with an impish smile.  
  
“Didn’t you say thinking of your brother helped to keep things under control?” teased John as he lightly ran his hand along Sherlock’s side over the fabric of his t-shirt. Sherlock gasped and squirmed, proving once more how ticklish he was, despite his staunch denial. “It may delay things a bit,” he admitted.  
  
“Good, I’d suggest you try that, then, because I intend to prolong this as much as I can.” John leaned in more closely and kissed Sherlock’s pulse point behind his ear which earned him a full-bodied jolt and another gasp. Slipping his hand under the hem of Sherlock’s t-shirt, he touched warm skin and felt a flutter of muscle. Sherlock inhaled sharply and let out the air in a long, shuddering breath.  
  
“Feel free to touch me as well,” John invited Sherlock, to give him something to do and concentrate on to distract him slightly from the immediate sensations. Sherlock swallowed and nodded, and began to hesitantly run his hands over John’s shoulders and down his back until he reached the hem of his t-shirt and started to pull it up.  
  
John leaned in to kiss him again, first his lips, then shifting a little he moved to his neck, which he kissed reverently. “No biting,” breathed Sherlock.  
  
“I know. This okay?” Sherlock nodded and swallowed. John slowly kissed his way down his throat, daring to suck a little on the small mole next to his Adam’s apple which had enticed him for a long time. Sherlock sighed and melted more closely against John, evidently forgetting his plans to remove his t-shirt. Eventually, however, his hands slipped under it, and now it was John’s turn to sigh when careful fingers moved over his ribs up to his scar and then down the knobs of his spine. He retaliated by shifting his own hand from Sherlock’s stomach to his chest. Skimming his fingers over a pert nipple, he was pleased to feel Sherlock’s entire body jerk and tremble. He groaned, then glared at John accusingly, frowning with shock and disbelief but looking all but displeased.  
  
“Did you just pinch me?”  
  
John laughed. “No. Do you want me to?”  
  
Sherlock shook his head. “No, no pinching, please. But do it again, whatever you did just now.“  
  
John gently rubbed the nipple again. Sherlock shivered. “Ahhh.”  
  
“Good?”  
  
“Surprisingly, yes. You liked that, too, when I did it to you, back in Suffolk. Caressing your chest, I mean.”  
  
“Yes, I did. Lift up your arms.”  
  
Sherlock did as he was bidden, and John pulled the t-shirt over his head and afterwards removed his own. He found Sherlock staring up at him from dark, hungry eyes. He reached out to skim his fingers over John’s scar, to then move them over his clavicles and down his chest, where he mimicked John’s touch. Now it was John’s turn to sigh and tremble.  
  
Sherlock gazed at him with an expression full of awe and wonder which touched John deeply. “You want me,” said Sherlock, his voice deep and hoarse, yet sounding surprised and almost disbelieving. John nodded, leaning in to kiss him gently.  
  
“You have no idea how much,” he replied quietly but heatedly.  
  
Sherlock gazed up at him, biting his lower lip. “I think I’m beginning to get an inkling,” he said hoarsely, and pulled down John’s head for a scorching kiss. Then he tried to flip their positions, which didn’t quite work and left both of them rolled up somewhat awkwardly in the bed sheets. Sherlock snorted impatiently as he pulled at the offending fabric to try and disentangle them. John helped as best he could, working hard to suppress a giggle and failing. For a moment Sherlock looked affronted, but then he began to laugh as well.  
  
“We’re really good at this,” he stated sarcastically, looking down at John fondly. John reached up to run a hand down his cheek and throat.  
  
“Actually, I think we truly are. Because this is how it’s supposed to be, you know, at least in my book. Fun. Sex is supposed to be fun. Of course we’re both nervous and also rather turned on, but ... I like it like this. I really, really do.” He swallowed. “I like seeing you so relaxed and happy, silly even. You always try so hard to hide this side of yours. You’ve no idea how beautiful you are when you allow yourself to laugh like this, to just be yourself, to not try and control things for once.”  
  
Sherlock cocked his head as he looked at John. “It’s your fault. And you are different, too. There’s no anger, no clenching of fists.”  
  
“Yes, perhaps. Come on, let’s get rid of the bloody sheet. And your pyjama bottoms, too. I’ve been fantasising about that delectable arse of yours for ages now.”  
  
Now it was Sherlock’s turn to giggle. “Yes, I know. It’s quite obvious from the way you look at it. You’re not even subtle about it anymore. If you’re nice I might let you touch it.”  
  
“I’m always nice.”  
  
“No, you’re really not.”  
  
“You’re right, I’m not,” growled John. “And because I’m not I can do this.”  
  
He flipped Sherlock onto his back again which earned him a surprised quack, and then proceeded to lick his left nipple. Sherlock’s body jolted like he had been electrocuted and he let out a deep, guttural moan. John was lucky not to get his nose cuffed too seriously by the surprised jerk of Sherlock’s body. He withdrew slightly, grinned at him wickedly before leaning down again and beginning to suck on the tense nub. Sherlock gripped the sheets with both hands, breathing harshly through his nose. Another brief glance at him revealed that his eyes were tightly shut and his face screwed up in what could be either pain or intense concentration or pleasure. John hoped it was the latter. Given he wasn’t hearing any complaints from his partner, nor a command to stop, he continued, beginning to rub the other nipple with his fingers before switching his mouth to it. One of Sherlock’s hands found the back of his neck where it tangled in his hair and eventually tugged slightly, which John took as a sign to interrupt his ministrations.  
  
Sherlock was breathing hard, his chest, neck and cheeks flushed. He seemed more aroused than ever. John, too, felt he wasn’t going to last much longer, not with the sounds Sherlock was making and his warm body pressed so tightly against his own. The points where they were skin to skin were electrifying. It didn’t matter that Sherlock’s anatomy was somewhat different from John’s previous partners, that he smelled differently, definitely male, that there was a slight smattering of hair on his chest, and that there was a definite erection pressed against John’s thigh. This was Sherlock, and they were finally together, and it was utterly frightening, and utterly brilliant.  
  
Drawing a deep breath to fortify himself against a flutter of nerves, John lightly skimmed one hand down Sherlock’s taut, heaving stomach until he reached the drawstring of his pyjama bottoms. Sherlock watched him hawkishly, swallowing hard. Carefully, John let his hand slide further down, running it along one trembling thigh before shifting it to the inside until his knuckles brushed against Sherlock’s erection through the fabric of his trousers. Sherlock twitched again, but not as violently as when John had licked his nipple. This time, apparently, he was prepared. He hissed out a breath, however, followed by a low and reverent “John,” which went right to John’s own erection.  
  
“Okay?” he asked quietly. Sherlock nodded, shifting his hips so that John’s hand came to rest fully on his groin. He took that as a sign to venture further, cautiously rubbing a few times before lifting his hand, glancing at Sherlock briefly for confirmation, and slipped his hand inside his trousers, feeling warm, slightly moist skin, coarse hair and finally silky steel. Sherlock bucked into his hand, making a strangled noise. A glance at his flushed face revealed that he appeared to be struggling hard not to utter another sound, biting his lower lip almost painfully while watching John with an expression of wonder and fascination, the kind he usually only displayed at a very complicated puzzle.  
  
John smiled and leaned in to kiss him, which Sherlock returned almost as an afterthought, showing clearly how distracted and likely overwhelmed he was, unable to muster brain-space even for kissing. John stroked him gently a few times, marvelling how natural and unawkward it felt to fondle another man’s penis under non-medical circumstances and without the barrier of disposable gloves. And Sherlock ... he was so responsive and yet was trying to restrain himself, both from making sounds and from bucking too strongly into John’s grip.  
  
John decided to grant him a short respite and remove both Sherlock’s and his own pyjama bottoms. Sherlock let out a shuddering breath when John stilled his hand and began to gently free him of the garment. “Lift,” John told him. It took a moment – God, Sherlock’s brain was really addled by hormones and emotion right now – before he complied, lifting his hips and letting John pull the bottoms down his legs, to then kick them away from under the sheets. John struggled to get rid of his own trousers, only to feel Sherlock’s large hands coming to his aid, cupping his arse as they stripped off the garment. He shimmied out of them and threw them away. Sherlock’s hands still roamed over his back and backside, jittery, as if undecided which part to touch first and trying to take in everything at once. John reached up and caught Sherlock’s right hand, gently stilling it as he placed it on his arse, where it felt entirely right and good.  
  
“There’s no hurry,” he reminded him gently.  
  
Sherlock let out a frustrated snort. “Yes, there is. One can only think of Mycroft so much.”  
  
John laughed, and Sherlock, after scowling at him and obviously thinking John was having fun at his expense to then be convinced of the opposite, joined in, his chuckle deep and throaty. He then sobered up, looking at John intently. “Will you touch me again?”  
  
John smiled. “God, yes. And Sherlock, don’t feel you have to hold back. Just ... let go when you are ready. I’ve got you. Okay?”  
  
Sherlock nodded, swallowed, and then deftly slipped his free hand between John’s legs, causing John to gasp and then groan. “Shit.”  
  
“Good?”  
  
“Bloody marvellous. And it’s still only your left hand.”  
  
Sherlock beamed at him. “Then let me try with my right.”  
  
“Be my guest.”  
  
“Thank you.”

  
  
**- <o>-**

  
  
Aroused as they both were, it did not take long for either of them to reach orgasm once they began to kiss and touch in earnest. Yet for John – and likely for Sherlock, too, given that he never seemed to delete anything to do with John –, those minutes would forever be imprinted in his memory as one of the most intensely intimate encounters he’d ever had. He knew he would always remember the heat and friction, the scent and taste of Sherlock, the deep rumble in his chest as he moaned, his gasps and sighs, and particularly the way he called John’s name when he climaxed, spilling hotly over John’s hand in the tight space between their bodies. John quickly followed suit, pressed up against Sherlock’s body, his lips on his throat and his face half hidden in the crook of his sweaty neck, hissing his name when the wave of white-hot pleasure rushed through him and left him panting.  
  
Afterwards, they lay for a long while slotted together while their breathing evened out, both resting on their sides but with John half on top of Sherlock. Their foreheads were touching, and to John it seemed they were almost breathing into each other’s noses. Sherlock’s fingers were drawing idle circles on his back, while John absently stroked his flank, feeling his thundering heartbeat gradually calm and his sweat dry.  
  
“I should get something to clean us up a little,” John murmured at length, but without any real intention of moving. Sherlock’s arms tightened around him under the covers which they had somehow managed to retrieve and draw over themselves.  
  
“Not yet.”  
  
John pressed a kiss to his forehead. “All right, not yet.” Drawing back a little to be able to look at Sherlock, he studied him to gauge his state. In the growing light of dawn, he looked rather dishevelled with his hair a dark mess starkly contrasted against the white pillow. His cheeks, throat and chest were still flushed. There was a faint bruise near the mole next to his Adam’s apple where John had sucked a little too vigorously. His lips were swollen, the skin surrounding them slightly irritated from John’s stubble. His eyes were half closed, heavy-lidded and lacking their usual keen focus. He looked utterly relaxed, almost melted into his pillow. Only the slightest of frownlines on his forehead indicated that he seemed to be engaged in some serious thinking.  
  
John smiled and nudged him gently. “Jury still out, or have they reached a verdict already?”  
  
Sherlock smiled. “Some of them are quite overwhelmed and heavily compromised by sentiment, I fear. But their preliminary verdict appears to be favourable.” He shifted on the pillow and gave John a gentle smile. “Thank you,” he said gravely.  
  
John kissed him. “My thanks to you, too. That was amazing.”  
  
Sherlock laughed. “Was it? I didn’t even know what I was supposed to do most of the time.”  
  
“You improvised rather well. Right, let me get a wet towel before this gets even more sticky. There’s quite a bit more mess when two blokes are involved, and believe me, you don’t want to let that dry on your skin.”  
  
Sherlock sighed dramatically but relinquished his hold on John’s back. “Hurry.”  
  
John did. He used the toilet, then quickly wiped himself down with a moist towel, to then take another to Sherlock.  
  
“Want to do it yourself, or may I?” he asked, standing next to the bed and all too aware of the way Sherlock’s eyes roamed over his body. John wasn’t a self-conscious man when it came to being seen in the nude, confident as he was in his own skin. He never had a problem showering with the lads after rugby training, or with his comrades in the army. Now, too, despite the intensity of Sherlock’s scrutiny, he felt reassured that his imperfections would not be seen as flaws. On the contrary, Sherlock appeared more than interested, and John remembered that this was the first time Sherlock saw him completely naked, those instances when he had caught glimpses of him showering through the (not altogether) frosted glass door of the bathroom aside.  
  
“You may do it,” said Sherlock, his voice deep and slightly hoarse. He drew back the covers, swallowed, then lay back again, gazing up at John expectantly and with a hint of his previous insecurity and vulnerability. John smiled when gently, he ran the towel over Sherlock’s stomach and between his legs. “You are utterly beautiful, you know that?” he murmured, leaning close and nuzzling Sherlock’s throat before kissing him.  
  
Sherlock sighed, then shook his head slightly. “Evidence would suggest that my bodily proportions are not in accordance with what is commonly accepted as beautiful or even handsome for the average human male. My head is too large, my shoulders too narrow, hips too—”  
  
He was forced to shut up when John kissed him hard. “Stop it, Sherlock,” he admonished him when he drew back and slipped under the covers again, pulling Sherlock close. “Just stop it. You’re not average, of course you aren’t. You’re extraordinary and amazing and disproportionally gorgeous. And that’s a fact. So shut up now, please. It’s only 5:45, according to your watch, so I’m all for cuddling a little and hopefully catching some more sleep. That okay with you?”  
  
“Yes,” replied Sherlock, looking at John warmly. John assumed that his compliments had touched him. Even though he truly had no reason for believing he was ugly and indeed often used his looks to his advantage when it came to beguiling witnesses, John knew by now that deep down, Sherlock felt insecure about ... well, many things, his outward appearance among them. John vowed to remind him of how stunning he truly was more often.  
  
Leaning forward, he pecked Sherlock on the lips. “Good.”  
  
Sherlock smiled at him. Drawing a breath, he took on a serious impression and went on, “The jury have decreed that the experience has been immensely pleasurable and would not mind a repeat, albeit not in the near future. However, they have also cautioned that sexual activity might prove distracting and thus detrimental to the Work, if undertaking during actual cases. I’m inclined to believe them in that respect although I think their statement needs to be bolstered by more evidence.”  
  
John laughed softly. “Does that mean you only want sex inbetween cases?”  
  
Sherlock bit his lip. “I don’t know yet. I do know that what we did just now was ... good. But it was also completely and utterly overwhelming. Perhaps this changes after a while once I’ve gotten used to the sensations and what to expect of the activity. But for now ... I can’t stop thinking about it, and therefore lack the capacity to think about anything else. Would you ... would it be a problem for you? Not having intercourse every day or every other day? How often do you need sex per week? I want this to be mutually satisfactory, now that we’ve embarked on this journey.”  
  
John snorted, but then smiled warmly. “That is very considerate of you, Sherlock. Let me assure you that I don’t require sex every day, nor even every week. I can always take care of my needs myself if you’re not available. I told you before, I’m happy to do this at your pace. So if you don’t feel like having sex, or want to devote all your mental faculties to the work, that’s fine. No pressure. Same goes for ... you know ... what we do in bed. I’ll all for experimentation, but I hope we’ll always negotiate what we’re comfortable with.”  
  
Sherlock raised his eyebrows in mocked surprise. “Are you implying that there may be things you’re not willing to do or have done to you, Captain Three Continents Watson?”  
  
John stabbed his side playfully, making Sherlock giggle. “Shut it, you. Yes, there are. I haven’t really thought about it, to be honest. So far, my sexual experiences have been fairly straightforward. Nothing really kinky. Whatever my questionable reputation might imply. So ... yeah. I’ll really have to think about where to draw the line, I guess.” He raised a challenging eyebrow. “Was there anything in particular you had in mind?”  
  
Sherlock shook his head. “Some of the activities I saw online didn’t look very pleasurable but rather painful and ... well ... cramp inducing. Not to mention bad for one’s back.”  
  
John giggled. “Yeah, well, porn’s never been a genuine representation of real sex, I guess.”  
  
“Agreed. There is a definite and rather sad lack of kissing,” stated Sherlock.  
  
“True. Does that mean you want some more?”  
  
“Always. If you’re amenable.”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
They kissed for a while, gently and unhurriedly, before Sherlock drew back with a sigh, gazing at John fondly and smiling, his forehead still resting against John’s. John was smiling, too. “I think I love you, John Watson.”  
  
“That’s good, because I love you, too, Sherlock Holmes.”  
  
Sherlock’s face crinkled up in laughlines and a multitude of chins. His happiness was contagious. John felt his own smile broadening until he was laughing softly. Sherlock kissed his forehead and cuddled closer – only to tense and lift his head, listening closely. John, too, thought he had heard a sound from the direction of the living room. They exchanged a wary glance.  
  
A moment later, there was a tentative knock on the door. John frowned at Sherlock. “Mrs. Hudson, perhaps? Hope we haven’t woken her with our earlier activities.”  
  
The knock was repeated, louder now and with some urgency. “Sounds like Mrs. Hudson,” mused Sherlock, sitting up in bed. Even though he still looked quite dishevelled, his appearance bearing obviously traces of their recent love-making, his entire stance had changed from the soft, cuddly lover to the alert detective.  
  
“Yes,” he called while John switched on the light. He was aware that seeing them like this, not much about their previous activities would be left to their landlady’s imagination. But then she had been rooting for them from the beginning, and was likely pleased that they’d finally managed to actually consummate their relationship.  
  
The door opened a fraction and right enough, Mrs. Hudson peeked in. She was wearing a dressing gown over what looked to be her nightshirt. She took in their state of undress, the nightclothes and towels scattered around the room and raised an eyebrow, but her squeal of delight or witty remark didn’t come. Instead, she looked worried.  
  
“Mrs. Hudson,” asked Sherlock gravely, “is anything the matter?”  
  
She nodded. “I am so sorry for ... disturbing you. But Detective Inspector Lestrade is here. Apparently he has tried to text and call you repeatedly but you didn’t hear.”  
  
Sherlock cast a brief glance towards the bathroom and frowned. “What does he want?”  
  
There was the clearing of a throat from the direction of the bedroom door, which subsequently was pushed open wider to reveal a pale and somewhat dishevelled Lestrade who looked like he had just fallen out of bed after a bad dream. He seemed to be preoccupied with something truly serious, because his eyebrows only rose a fraction when he took in Sherlock’s and John’s state of undress and the implications thereof. John felt Sherlock tense next to him, sitting up even straighter in rapt attention, even alarm.  
  
Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment. “Sorry to rush in like this, chaps, but I’ve been trying to reach both of you for about an hour. Is neither of your phones working?”  
  
“They’re not in this room,” explained John, drawing the sheets a little tighter around himself. “What’s the matter? New case?”  
  
Next to him, Sherlock slowly shook his head. “No, this is something else. Something pressing and therefore likely personal. You were informed of this only recently, and rushed to the crime scene in a hurry, without your habitual morning coffee or nicotine patch. You didn’t even grab a fresh shirt when you dashed out of bed but are wearing yesterday’s. So what is it? Has a body turned up? If yes, likely in a public place, hence your excitement and the implication that time is pressing. There is need to keep it hushed up, isn’t there?”  
  
“Yes, all correct. Good to see that you’re on form, despite ...,” Lestrade replied somewhat testily and waved a hand around the bedroom. “Get dressed and into my car. I’ll take you there. Both of you. This concerns John as much as yourself.”  
  
Sherlock cast a brief glance at John and the latter saw the line of a frown appear between his brows and his eyes narrowing as his excitement about a potential new case was overshadowed by something else. Worry, perhaps? John wasn’t sure. He nudged Sherlock. “Come on,” he said quietly.

  
**- <o>-**

  
  
Ten minutes later they were sitting in the back of Lestrade’s car as he sped past King’s Cross Station to then turn right into King’s Cross Road to head south towards the City. John would have liked to take a shower, or at least wash properly and don some fresh clothes instead of yesterday’s, but Lestrade had been adamant that they hurry. The fact that he drove with a grim, determined expression and didn’t make any remarks about what he had seen at Baker Street worried John. Sherlock, too, seemed deep in thought, his expression shuttered off. The only information about their destination Lestrade had yielded was that they were heading to Barts.  
  
When they arrived there, John saw that some of the buses had been diverted and the area in front of the building where the regular bus stops were situated had been cordoned off by police. He felt a stab in his chest at the reminder. The last time it had been secured by police tape had been after Sherlock’s fake suicide. Next to him, Sherlock stirred and surprised John by reaching for his hand and squeezing it reassuringly. John let out a long breath.  
  
They rounded the ambulance building that had so successfully shielded John’s view after Sherlock’s jump so that he hadn’t seen him land in the lorry loaded with laundry. Police were swarming thickly there. John recognised a tired looking Donovan standing next to the tape talking to a bus driver who was obviously inquiring about the situation.  
  
“Has there been another jumper?” asked John as they exited the car.  
  
Lestrade shook his head. “No, not as such. But there is a body. One of the bus drivers found it, about two hours ago. At first he thought it was a drunk taking a kip on one of the benches. Turned out the fellow was dead. But that’s not the strangest thing about the whole set up. Before the driver ever called London City Police, we received an anonymous tip off. That’s why we are here as well. The whole thing is very strange. Uncanny, even. See for yourselves.”  
  
He nodded to Donovan who lifted the cordon to let them pass through. Apparently, apart from securing it against public access, the scene had been left undisturbed. John saw a forensics team waiting next to the ambulance building, but it seemed they hadn’t done any work yet.  
  
“We’ve kept it exactly as it was found,” explained Lestrade.  
  
Sherlock turned to him with a frown. “Why? As much as I appreciate it, it’s not standard procedure.”  
  
Lestrade let out a long breath. “This isn’t a standard case, I believe.”  
  
Something in his grim tone worried John. He increased his pace to keep up with Sherlock, only to almost run into him when he stopped suddenly, staring at the figure sitting slumped on one of the benches opposite the bus stop, right next to the old phone booth that had become a makeshift shrine after Sherlock’s supposed death, with fans leaving messages and expressing their belief in the detective’s integrity and their hopes that he was still alive, somehow, somewhere. Even after his return the pilgrimage of fans hadn’t abated, and they continued to leave small items or scribbled messages in and on the booth, or on the dusty windows of the building next to it, close to where Sherlock’s body had supposedly hit the ground and his blood had spilled on the pavement.  
  
Halting next to Sherlock, John looked at the still figure, outlined clearly in the harsh light from the lamps that police had set up. He could not see the features clearly because the man sat with his head hanging on his chest. But he looked familiar. Tall and broad-shouldered, wearing jeans and sleek but sturdy shoes and a leather jacket that seemed to be of a similar price range as Sherlock’s Belstaff. Short, light-brown hair, gloved hands ...  
  
“Sebastian Moran,” muttered Sherlock next to him.  
  
John turned to him sharply. Behind them, Lestrade confirmed the identity. “That’s why we called you. Your brother insisted we look out for the fellow. Yesterday evening we got word from Interpol that apparently he was spotted back in London. Well, and now he’s here, and it looks he won’t be going away again.”  
  
“Obviously,” said Sherlock quietly. Slowly, he approached the still figure, carefully scanning every inch of pavement and the surrounding benches and bicycle racks. John followed him.  
  
Drawing closer and hunkering down slightly in order to catch a glimpse of his face, he could see what had killed Moran: a single shot to the forehead from a small calibre gun. A thin ribbon of blood had run out and trickled down along his nose and onto his lap. The back of the head was hale, no splatter of blood, bone and brains behind him on the wall, but also no blood stains leading up to the bench.  
  
“Photos have already been taken of his position,” said Lestrade, “so be free to move him.”  
  
Sherlock nodded. Pulling on his gloves, he gingerly tipped back Moran’s head. The face looked relaxed, the eyes closed and the mouth slack, no expression of pain or surprise visible.  
  
“This looks like a hit,” mused John, thinking of the yet unsolved murder of Vilhelm van de Kerke.  
  
“Yes,” said Sherlock quietly, leaning in for a better look. “Or rather, like an execution. I believe the autopsy will reveal that he was drugged before he was shot. The question is, who would manage such a feat. Moran was a specialist, and highly skilled in this field. It wouldn’t have been easy to even get close to him, even less to drug and shoot him.”  
  
“Also, who’d be interested in killing him,” put in John. “I mean, I take it that usually he was the killer. That was his profession, and I bet he was very careful about protecting his identity.”  
  
One of Sherlock’s eyebrows twitched up. “Oh, I am sure there was a long queue of people interested in getting him out of the way. In a profession like his, he was bound to have had enemies. But the question remains ... wait, what is this?”  
  
Reaching out, he gingerly pulled on a tiny corner of white that showed under Moran’s hands which had been arranged in his lap, one over the other. Working carefully, Sherlock withdrew a cream-white envelope. It wasn’t sealed. Sherlock held it up and studied it meticulously. John saw a frown deepen between his eyes.  
  
“What’s wrong?” he asked, stepping closer to Sherlock.  
  
His friend’s lips narrowed. “The paper, I’ve seen it before. And so, in fact, have you.”  
  
“When?”  
  
“When Moriarty sent me the pink phone. It’s the same stationary. Bohemian. 200 gsm laid paper. You can even see the watermark here.”  
  
John drew in a sharp breath. “Be careful,” he said when Sherlock slipped his finger under the sleeve and opened the envelope. Inside was no phone this time, but a plain sheet of apparently the same paper as the envelope, folded once in the middle. Sherlock withdrew it carefully and opened it. Inside, written with what looked like a fountain pen and blue ink, was the following message:  
  
YOU OWE ME, BAKER STREET BOYS.  
AGRA  
X  
  
John stared at the cryptic writing, carefully set down in block capitals, then at Sherlock, whose eyes were glued to the paper. “Parker Duofold, iridium nib,” he whispered, almost reverentially. “The same pen, John.”  
  
“The same author, too, do you think?”  
  
Sherlock shrugged, before turning to John fully, his face splitting into a broad, excited smile. “I’m not sure. It could be. This looks like a woman’s hand, even though the writer tried to disguise their normal writing pattern by carefully drawing these capitals. But I intend to find out. Lestrade, I need a full autopsy of the body and all CCTV coverage of the area you can lay your hands on. We need a full ballistics report and toxicology scan. Have this envelope checked for fingerprints and traces of DNA, although I doubt you’ll find any. Have a graphologist check the writing against the one on the pink phone’s envelope which I know still being kept in your archives. Analyse ink and paper. I want to talk to the driver who found him, and everybody else who has been here before the police arrived. How comes you’re in charge here, anyway, and not London City Police? Despite the message you received, this part of London is their responsibility.”  
  
“Special deal,” said Lestrade. “DI Launceston is responsible.” He pointed to a middle-aged woman in a grey coat who was talking to the forensics team. “Sherlock, do you have any idea what all this is about? I understand Moran was a rather unpleasant fellow one doesn’t want to have running around in one’s city. But this ... this is odd. And what have you got there. It’s evidence, I should remind you.”  
  
“I am fully aware of it. But the message is addressed to us, John and me.” He held it up for Lestrade to read while he explained about the pen and paper. Lestrade’s face paled at the implication.  
  
“But he’s dead. Moriarty. He blew his own brains out.”  
  
“I doubt this is Moriarty’s doing. It could be someone from his organisation, or a freelancer, a copycat.”  
  
“Or a crazy fan who thought they were doing us a favour,” muttered John darkly. The prospect of Moriarty or somebody like him returning held very little appeal, considering what his involvement in the London crime scene had cost them last time. At the same time, however, John felt wild (and inappropriate) excitement course through him. Who was Agra, why were they helping Sherlock and him? And what could they possibly want in return?  
  
He looked up from the message to find Sherlock watching him keenly. “It looks like we have a new case,” he stated, unable to keep his excitement out of his voice.  
  
John nodded. “Indeed. Just promise me that whoever is behind this, you won’t let them make you fake your own death again.”  
  
Sherlock reached for John’s hand and squeezed it, before to John’s surprise he leaned in to kiss his temple. “I promise.”  
  
Drawing back, he released John’s hand. Stepping back, he nodded at John, indicating Moran. “Dr. Watson, would you do me the favour of examining the body to determine the exact cause and time of death?"  
  
John grinned at his formal invitation. “With pleasure, Mr. Holmes.”  
  
  
  
**-END-**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final illustration for this story is "[Early Morning](http://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/137044560008/early-morning-illustration-for-the-final-chapter)":

**Author's Note:**

> As usual with my fics there will be illustrations to the story. I will post them on my [tumblr](http://khorazir.tumblr.com) under the [#over earth and under earth](http://khorazir.tumblr.com/tagged/over_earth_and_under_earth) tag, and also add the corresponding artwork to each respective chapter.
> 
> [Hamstermoon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Hamstermoon/pseuds/Hamstermoon) has made stylish bookcovers for my entire [Over/Under](http://archiveofourown.org/series/34840) series. Here's the one for this story: [Cover for _Over Earth and Under Earth_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2299943). Thank you so much!


End file.
